


Amidst the Ashes

by crossfirehurricane



Series: The Second Chance, and the Last [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Gen, Remarriage, Second Chances, Widowed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-12 10:11:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3352718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossfirehurricane/pseuds/crossfirehurricane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lyanna Stark decides against taking flight from her marriage, and begrudgingly marries Robert Baratheon. Within the year, she becomes a widow at the young age of seventeen, with half the realm believing she had a hand in it. Now free from the bonds of marriage, and her place at Storm's End, Lyanna returns to Winterfell with no intention of remarrying.</p><p>Rhaegar Targaryen is widowed when Elia Martell dies in childbed, attempting to give her husband his third child. The child, a girl, is lost alongside her mother. The prophecy and the realm demands that he remarry, calling for a flurry of young maidens to vie for his attentions, and one who is unsure if she desired his attention at all.</p><p>Yet this pair had almost known intimacy before. Whether they shall know it again, only the Gods can say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lyanna I

**Author's Note:**

> ...Aaaaand now I'm writing another fic. On the bright side, the final chapters for A King's Attentions and The Way We Were are in the works. So hopefully that'll even everything out.
> 
> The fic starts in the year 284 AC. The premise is rather simple; when Rhaegar and Lyanna had planned to run away with each other at the Isle of Faces, Lyanna had chosen not to follow through with the plan, and instead continued onward to her brother's wedding at Riverrun. Roughly a year later, she is married to Robert at sixteen years of age.
> 
> This fic won't be more than 10 chapters, probably, and it'll only have two POVs, Lyanna's and Rhaegar's. Enjoy!

Lyanna knew she ought to weep. She knew it was what was expected of her, what others would want to see from her, so they may all tell her friends of how heartbroken and shattered the poor Lady of Storm’s End was.  And Lyanna tried to do it, just for them. She tried to force herself to weep, to sob, to shed one single tear, but none came. For in truth, though her husband was dead, she was ever glad for it.

She was no mummer, after all. She never had been. The greatest piece of acting she had ever performed was almost four years ago at Harrenhal, when she dressed in mismatched armor and pretended to be a man. But even that performance had been uncovered, by a prince no less, and Lyanna had little practice at pretending since.

She could not even pretend to be happy on her wedding day. Not when Robert had kissed her with such passion after being wedded by the septon, not when her brothers danced with her at the feast, not when strangers showered her with praise, and certainly not when she retired to bed with her husband. The horrid memory still lingered in her mind though she tried so hard to will it away: the stink of beer on his breath filling her nostrils, the roughness of his hands as they pinched and groped her small breasts, the heavy weight of him pressing upon her, and the feeling of painful violation when he pushed into her without warning or affection—

The memory of all that blood and seed on her thighs still made her gag.

_No more. There shall be no more of that._

That much was certain, for the evidence was right before her dry eyes. They closed the casket on him, and now lowered him in his designated place in the crypts. Not even Robert’s massive strength could give him power enough to force himself out, should the gods decide to revive him by some cruel jape. He was entombed in stone. He was gone, forever.

_No more_. No more of his whores in her bed, no more of his body pumping carelessly into hers, no more of their ear-splitting arguments, no more of his indifference, his frustration, his _you’re not the girl I married_ because she was never that girl.

Whoever Lyanna Stark was to Robert Baratheon, she never existed. Robert’s Lyanna was the product of his imagination and wet dreams; the real Lyanna was a loud, and crushing disappointment.

She retires to her rooms immediately after the burial. She hopes that would be enough for some, the images of Robert’s solemn widow unable the bear the scene any longer, rushing for privacy so she may weep alone.

When did find herself alone, tucked into the oyster of her own room, the first thing Lyanna did was laugh. It was a laugh that bubbled from the edges of her lips, a chuckle almost, before it erupted from her belly into a force that shook her shoulders and sent her doubling over.

_He’s gone! He’s gone! Oh thank the gods, he’s gone!_

Her joy was almost overwhelming, almost left her with a frightful sense of guilt, but neither of those forces won out. In moments, she was composed again, lying on her bed with a wistful smile on her face.

It could not have been better if she had planned it; and she did not plan it, for as much as she despised the man, she knew she did not have the strength to bear the burden of his death on her shoulders. Robert had done himself away by his own folly, as he surely would have done sooner or later. Off on one of his hunts, he rode his horse hard and fast; Robert was never gentle with the horses he rode, and was rather cruel with the riding crop. The stallion, a new mount reacting much like Lyanna might have, threw him off with great force. When his companions caught up to him, they found him on the ground with his head bent at an impossible angle.

His neck was found snapped clean through. The stallion suffered for its madness with his own neck, just a quick slice of a blade to its throat.

A pity that the poor creature had to be sacrificed for a man like Robert, but it was a small price to pay. Lyanna had her freedom now, the freedom a silver prince offered her once and one she was too scared to accept. Lyanna thought it noble of her then to grit her teeth and do her duty by her father, to let herself be married off, but she learned rather quickly that there was nothing noble in senseless suffering.

She spends the rest of the day mulling over what she would do with her new position. She was still Lady of Storm’s End, and she supposed she had her duties, tasks that Stannis carried out on the pretense that he simply did not trust her to make decisions.  Is that to be her fate, then? To do as she pleased and let Stannis act as if he were the Lord of the Stormlands? A lucky thing that he had wed the Florent girl recently, else he would have surely asked for her hand in marriage. Stannis wanted Storm’s End. That much was very clear.

Strange that she even considered such a prospect. Her positon was something she hardly thought about. On the contrary, she did much to forget about it, to forget who she was wed to and who she ruled beside. Instead, she remembered Rhaegar Targaryen’s promises of freedom and adventure, of showing her the world and then some.  Letters filled with descriptions of the wonders of Pentos and Bravoos and Yunka’i. _Come away with me, and we’ll see it all,_ he swore.

Lyanna had refused, out of her own fears and Ned’s reassurances that she would be enormously happy with Robert. Ned had been wrong, and Lyanna did not spend a day without wondering, _what if?_

She turns on her side, her cheek pressed to the cool pillow. Robert’s scent still lingered on it. It made her crinkle her nose and roll over to her own pillow.

She leaves thought of ruling for another time. It does not cross her mind for weeks afterward, and no one forced it on her. Everyone in the castle left her alone, as if she were so volatile that she might burst into tears over her grief. Even guards leave her alone, allowing her to ride by her lonesome for the first time in ages. Renly, however, does not leave her alone, but she forgives him this as he is but a child of six. The little boy was like her in that he did not seem overly grieved by his brother’s death, likely because there was no loss of relationship to grieve over. Little Renly loved Lyanna best out of every person he knew, and he showed that love by clinging to her skirts ever since she had first arrived over a year ago. He’d even called her mother, once, but Robert had swiftly corrected him on that point, reminding him rather heartlessly that his mother was dead.

For a while, she is content. Though on the outside she dressed in black and pretended to be somber and forlorn, Lyanna was experiencing life as she had before she wed. She had no hulking beast of a man to enter her bed and ravage her, no man to tell her what to do or how to act, none to look at her during the day with scathing disappointment and then at night with lust and drunken proclamations of love. No more, no more, no more. Lyanna would sleep soundly, with her hand tucked between her thighs to give herself the pleasure Robert so often denied her.

She spends a few weeks in this girlish reverie, feeling as if her lifesblood was being poured back into her, her nerves coming alive with the feelings of freedom and joy that had been torn from her when she got married. Even her chest felt widened, as if her lungs were filling with air sorely missed after being pressed upon for so long. This was an unholy amount of delight to feel after the death of a husband, Lyanna knew, but she could not help it. She would not suppress it any longer than she already had.

The fantasy was brought to a shuddering halt when Stannis called her into his solar. She had almost wanted to snipe at the messenger that Lord Stannis had no right to force the Lady of Storm’s End into his stuffy solar, but she knew it was not fair to the lad. In a rather sour mood, she escorts herself to her goodbrother's solar with her hands on her hips.

“My lord,” she tells him rather grandly. “May I remind you that I am no servant you may force from one room to another, but rather your goodsister and lady to boot—“

“Enough of that,” Stannis returned in his characteristically cold attitude. Lyanna wondered how Selyse could bear such an iceberg of a man. She could only assume it was easier than a beast. “You should know that you are no more my goodsister and lady as any other woman in the realm.”

Lyanna lifts a brow at the challenge. “Truly?” She asked sardonically. “Remind me again who married your older brother?”

Stannis scowls. “Remind me again of how many heirs you gave him?”

_My womb does not take to seed I do not desire,_ she almost says aloud. Indeed, she had not fallen pregnant once despite Robert’s tireless attempts. She liked to think it was her own resolve that kept her from such a fate.

“None,” she returns, crossing her arms over her chest. “What difference does it make? Am I not still your ruling lady?”

Stannis’s lips seem to almost curl into a smirk. “No, my lady, you are not,” he returns. “You might have been, if I were not already married and Renly not a child, but since you gave my brother no heirs, and there is no other Baratheon for you to wed, you, my lady, are a Baratheon only in name, with no title other than ‘Robert’s widow’.”

Lyanna stares at him in a mixture of silence and shock. Was that truly how inheritance worked? Lyanna could swear she knew of ladies who ruled in their own right, husbandless and childless. Slowly, the pieces fell into place. She was not a Baratheon by blood; she had no sway here without Robert. She is unsure if she should feel offended or overjoyed by this.

Lyanna lifts her narrowed eyes to Stannis’s hard gaze. “So you are the Lord of Storm’s End? And Selyse your lady?”

Stannis nods. “Aye,” he tells her, before shifting into a harsher tone. “Do not pretend as if you care for the loss of your title, Lady Lyanna, for it is an insult to my intelligence. You care for this position as much as you cared for the man who gave it to you.” His sharp blue eyes are alarmingly accusatory. “Every soul in this damned keep knows how poorly you two carried on. Unsurprising, considering that both of you were such abhorrently loud—“

“Are you quite done, my lord?” Lyanna shoots back, not one to stand and let herself be insulted.

“Not quite,” Stannis returns, grinding his teeth. He folds his hands in front of him. “There have been rumors, whispers of foul play at hand in Robert’s death, and you have been mentioned in more than a few of them.”

Taken aback at the implication, Lyanna feels her face growing hot. “There are those who think I killed Robert? Me?” She laughs bitterly. “Robert fell off a _horse_! Tell me, my lord Stannis, what sorcery did I practice to make that happen?” Stannis seems prepared to shoot back some scathing commentary, but Lyanna stops him. “I fear I am not so brave nor spiteful, my lord, and if you believe these rumors you are as much a fool as they are.”

He continues to glower. “I did not say I believe them. I am only acknowledging their existence.” He is visibly irked by her words; Lyanna takes a little pride in this. “Nevertheless, the circumstances are suspicious to some. I am only giving you this warning so that you’d have some explanation of why other lords may refuse your hand.”

Lyanna laughs her short, bitter laugh again. “Refuse my hand?” She asks incredulously. “I do not recall offering it to anyone, nor do I intend to do so. Let them all believe a girl of seven-and-ten killed the great and lusty Robert Baratheon. If it keeps suitors out of my hair, then I shall be more than glad for such a wretched accusation.”

“Very well,” Stannis returns, still grinding his teeth. “If that is how you feel, I hope your family does not mind that you shall never leave their home. You are no longer my concern, after all. You are to return to Winterfell.”

Lyanna almost wants to warn him against ordering her around, but this was one command she is almost glad to follow through on. _Winterfell!_ She enthuses internally. _Home! I get to go home again!_ The thought made her so giddy that her heart began to thump in her chest. As lovely as the sea and green of Storm’s End was, it paled in comparison to her ancestral home. Oh Gods, she missed snow and warm walls and a true godswood and her brothers, and home, home, home…

Lyanna attempts to remain the stoic widow and offers a stiff nod as if her heart wasn’t near bursting with joy. “How soon, my lord?” she asks.

“Within the fortnight,” Stannis returns. “I see no reason for you to linger here any longer.”

Lyanna nods. “Very well, then. I shall have my ladies begin to pack my things.” Still feigning being slighted, Lyanna curtsies, before turning sharply on her heel and leaving Stannis’s solar.

When she reaches her chambers, she almost broke down in tears of mirth. Instead she opens her palms up to the gods and prays.

_Thank you, thank you, thank you_ , she tells them fervently. _Thank you. Thank you._

The nightmare was ending, home was on the horizon, and her chains had finally rusted to pieces. She would be a girl again, that slight, wild girl who ran barefoot and wove flowers into her hair. The girl who never thought about a man's rough touch or feared a quickening in her womb. A girl named Lya, who once thought that the prince's interest in her was something strange and magical. A kind girl, a thoughtless one. _What a blessing that would be, to be thoughtless again._  She smiles broadly and closes her eyes, already washing away the memories that killed the girl inside her.


	2. Rhaegar I

Rhaegar takes a seat in his empty solar and buries his face in his hands. He liked to think the horrors of the past few moons was behind him; after all, what was there left to lose?

Two moons turns ago, they'd cremated his father and scattered his ashes. He'd succumb to the sickness that had swept through King's Landing, and his own madness. That was not a loss heavily mourned. 

But this morning, he had attended Elia's funeral in the company of her brothers and countrymen, who looked at him as if it were his fault. In a way it was. She had died in childbed, her health too fragile to bring the child into the world, and thus the babe died too. That was a child that was never meant to exist. All the maesters had said she would be unable to carry after Aegon; by some miracle, she fell pregnant, and despite everyone's precautions, she perished because of it. 

Had he wanted that third child? Of course. The maester said it had been a girl, after all. Yet despite the miracle of circumstance, the ordeal had left him with nothing to gain but a bitter taste in his mouth. 

He supposed he ought to count his lucky stars. He had his mother. His siblings, Viserys, Daenerys. His own children, Rhaenys and Aegon.

Poor Rhaenys had been so confused at the funeral. She clung to his pant leg with eyes wide in horror as they closed the casket on her mother, who was swaddled in white silks. It was not a true burial in that she was put into the ground, but rather a rite. Her brothers were to take the casket to Sunspear, and bury her beside her mother.

Not witnessing the casket disappear below the earth did not ease Rhaenys's sorrows. She pulled on his hand and demanded, "What's happening? Where is mama going? Papa, why is she sleeping?" Tears had filled her big brown eyes, and for a moment it seemed as if she understood the concept of death. He pulled her up into his arms and kissed her cheek as she dug her little nails into his shoulder.

He'd put her to bed early, as he hoped that a full night of sleep might ease that look of confusion and sorrow on her face. He hoped she may smile soon enough; she looked much like her mother when she smiled.

Aegon, on the other hand, was too little to understand. He was just coming upon his second nameday, and processed little of what was happening. He was smiling today, Rhaegar recalled. He wondered if that would change when he realized his mother was missing. 

Heaving a sigh, the king leans back in his seat. Elia had been a good woman; dutiful, kind, gentle-hearted. A woman difficult to come by, and one he knew her brothers did not think he deserved. Perhaps he didn’t deserve her. There was a time when he knew that for fact; when he laid the laurel of blue roses on the Stark girl’s lap, exchanged illicit letters filled with extravagances that were meant to convince into fleeing with him, when he rode as far as the Isle of Faces and found she was not there.

I’m sorry, she would write him later. But it is not right. 

Just as well. Now he would have his pick of women again, in full legality. It would not be for a year at least, to honor his late wife. But the options were there; he had only to decide.

He could not think of that now. He drums his fingers on his writing desk, and thinks about Elia instead. Elia and her lovely bronze skin. Elia and her deep, dark eyes. Elia and her thick lashes, her gentle waist, her angles where all her bones jutted out. Gods, she was so fragile. He should have known better than to even lay with her. It was always her who convinced him of it; he supposed that as a woman, she had her own needs that only her husband could fulfill. He had been raised to believe that women were not creatures who desired the closeness of flesh as men did, but Elia had proven him wrong. And despite the bruises that would mar her hips and thighs the next day, she would insist they did not hurt and that he had not harmed her.

He supposed that was her nature, to ease the minds of those who required easing. She’d insisted to him over and over that the pregnancy would be no hassle, that she surely had the strength to bear it. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken, is what she told him. I can do this.

He knew she couldn’t. But she would not hear it.

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The world does not stop for tragedy, it seems. Rhaegar had the burden of the entire realm on his shoulders for him to bear. He'd not been king very long now, and most of what he's done was patch up the mistakes his father had made. Taking audiences and penning letters, however, becomes a rather tiring task after some time. 

Yet the day was drawing to a close, and thus Rhaegar could find time to see to his children before he collapsed on his bed. He finds Rhaenys in her rooms, sheets pulled up to her chin as she pouted at the ceiling above her. He goes to her side, sitting down on the bed beside her, and pushes back the dark hair from her eyes. She turns her face away from him, and then her whole body. Rhaegar gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze. That action seemed to have pulled at the seams of her emotions, and she begins to shake in gentle sobs.

“Rhaenys,” Rhaegar says her name as kind as a kiss. He pulls her small form onto his lap, letting her bury her tear-streaked face in his black shirt. “It’s all right, sweetling. It’s all right.” He’s not sure what it is that he’s deeming ‘all right’, but they were the only words he could find.

“When is mama coming back?” She asks between gasps, her little hands bunching the fabric of his shirt. “Is she gone forever?”

Rhaegar smooths her hair and rubs her back, feeling a pain in his chest at his daughter’s innocence. “She is,” he tells her softly, honestly. “I’m sorry, Rhaenys.”

She continues in her sobbing. He tries to sing to her, to calm her nerves, but she wept through every song, even The Seasons of My Love, which she regarded as her favorite. He waits out her weeping, still holding her to him and soothing her through gentle touches until her sniffles evaporated into snores.

He lays his sleeping daughter back down on her bed, pulling the sheets over her and pressing a kiss to her wet cheek. He imagines that this is only the beginning of her grief; he hasn’t a clue when it shall end.

Though he leaves Rhaenys’s rooms even wearier than before, he still takes the time to check up on Aegon, who is already asleep in his crib and did not even stir when his father kissed his forehead. He supposed that as their only parent now, he would have to compensate for the love that would go missing from their lives due to the loss of their mother.

He is in his room and changed into nightclothes when he feels a peace begin to wash over him. Gods knew he needed a restful night. He had worked so hard and thought so much and grieved enough to grind his naturally melancholy soul down into blue dust. 

He sinks down onto the sheets, eyes already coming to close as he does so. They are empty sheets, he realizes. Cold sheets. And though he did not share his bed with Elia nightly, there was still an odd sensation to being allowed so much room. He supposed most men would turn to other women to share their bed, so that the wooden frame would once again hold two bodies and not one, but not he. Desire of the flesh was not something that plagued Rhaegar. Desire for companionship, perhaps, but that had disappeared along with a babe who never saw the light.

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Dour news comes from all corners of the realm, and Jon Connington spares him no gory detail. Yet between the raiding and the crises of succession and the shortage of food for the winter, Rhaegar hardly expected Jon’s last announcement.

“And, your grace, it seems that Robert Baratheon’s perished,” he tells him with a certain grimace that could only be translates as distaste.

Rhaegar’s brows lift in surprise. “How?” He asks immediately. The man had been as hale and hardy as any, and at only two-and-twenty, he surely had many, many years of whoring and drinking ahead of him. 

“Fell off his horse on a hunt, but they say his widow had a hand in it,” Jon explains.

“The Lady Lyanna?” Rhaegar inquires. Gods, there was a name he hadn’t uttered in ages. It tasted new and sweet on his tongue as the first time he’d said it. “Did she dislike him so?” He knew the answer to this; she hadn’t liked him before they had even wed. No doubt the intimacy of marriage served only to reinforce that feeling.

“I hear they got along horribly,” Jon returns in a snort. “Fought at every turn. Wouldn’t keep to her bed. Drank and behaved belligerently, you know him.” Rhaegar did, but only a little. As Jon’s liege lord, he supposed he knew a little more about him. “They say she tampered with his saddle, or cast a spell to force him to fall and break his neck.”

Rhaegar almost laughs. He shakes his head and frowns. “I doubt she did such a thing.”

Jon shrugs. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, your grace. But now his brother has taken his place as Lord of Storm’s End. He’s shipped the girl back off to Winterfell.”

Rhaegar nods. This was certainly an interesting development, yet he lets go of the thought of her for now. There was no use in thinking about her now, not after what they had said and done. Not after the tragedy of widowhood was so fresh, though he supposed he’d feel it stronger than Lyanna would.

“Now tell me,” Rhaegar begins, moving onto a different topic. “Has Lord Tywin considered my offer?”

Jon nods. “He has, your grace. He’s on the road now to King’s Landing. He says he’s more than honored that you chose him.”

“Good,” Rhaegar returns. “I intend to patch all the holes my father made, Jon. Reconciliation with the Lannisters are only the start.” His father had shamed and wronged the Lannisters at every turn; a dangerous thing to do with a house richer than all of the other Seven Kingdoms combined.

“A wise move, your grace,” Jon responds with a smile that seemed rather proud. “You’ll bring about a reign like that of your forefather Jaehaerys. The books and songs will speak of you for centuries to come. I’m sure of it.”

Rhaegar smiles and waves a hand. He did not know if he were capable of so much. His son, perhaps, as Aegon was promised for greatness. And since it was he that would accept the title as savior, Rhaegar would accept a title as simply being wise. Though he supposed that his parallels with Jaehaerys ended there. He had no Good Queen, after all. 

There would be hundreds of girls to vie for such a title. For now, he’d consider none of them. Later, perhaps, he’d consider only one.

 


	3. Lyanna II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna returns to Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this! As usual, uni takes up a lot of my time. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Looking back, Lyanna was not entirely sure of what to expect upon her return in Winterfell. She rode hard and fast to arrive, and now at the gates of her ancestral home, she is suddenly overcome with apprehension.

 _Do they even want me back?_ She cannot help but wonder. _Will they be disappointed to see me? Will they behave differently around me?_ Brandon was married now, Ned had seen half of Westeros, and Benjen was nearly a man grown. They were all so different; but then again, so was Lyanna.

The gates part for her with a familiar creak. Lyanna urges her horse past her escorts, wanting her filly’s hooves to touch the courtyard’s ground before anyone else’s. Men bustled around her, paying her no mind as they went about their duties. Her eyes scanned the space before her to catch sight of someone familiar, yet she struggles to do so.

Her woeful thoughts returned in full force. _Had they forgotten I was coming? Do none of them want to even see me?_

"There she is!" A voice booms from behind her. Lyanna pulls her horse around to take in the sight of who she suspected it to be.

"Brandon!" She calls back, grinning broadly as she jumped down from her horse to rush to her brother's. He comes down from his stallion to wrap her in a hug that pulls her off her feet. Immediately, Lyanna feels at home. The smell of the North was in his the fur of his cloak and her oldest brother's familiar arms leave her feeling safe, the safest she's ever felt.

She almost complains as he sets her back down again, but his broad smile distracts her. "We were trying to find you on your path, sweet sister, but either you or your messenger got their directions wrong. Most likely you." Lyanna nearly whacks him on the arm for his comment, but she is too delighted at the slight to pretend to be angry. How long had it been since she'd had anyone humor her so?

"The messenger said she was coming in from the southeast," a man's voice calls from behind him. " _You_ are the one who insisted that she must have stopped cut through the Wolfswood.”

Lyanna grins at Ned, who appear as exasperated as ever with Brandon. It comforted her to know these such a little thing hadn’t changed, that there was still a part of her childhood here in Winterfell. When Ned comes down from his horse, he accepts Lyanna’s embrace warmly, kissing her cheek as he did.

“I’m sorry about Robert,” he whispers to her, though she knew his apology was directed at her perceived loss, and not of his treatment of her. She cannot fault him on this; she never told any of them of her great unhappiness. “I meant to come down for the funeral, but I had been at the Wall representing father for a meeting with the Lord Commander.”

Lyanna expresses what she hoped appeared like a pained smile. “Do not apologize, Ned. I know how much he meant to you.”

Ned nods. “We were like brothers,” he whispers almost brokenly. Lyanna’s heart aches for him, but when he opens his mouth to elaborate, he is interrupted by a true brother.

“Lya!” The voice without a doubt belongs to Benjen, yet it is a few octaves deeper than she recalled it. Turning around, Lyanna finds her youngest brother appearing much like an older brother. When she last saw him, he was of a height with her. Now he stood several inches taller, making his previously lanky limbs gain a little grace.

“Benjen,” Lyanna returns breathlessly, shocked at his change in appearance. “Why, I’ve been gone only a year and you’ve chosen to shoot up like tree!”

“I have, haven’t I?” He returns cheekily before going in for an embrace. “And you haven’t changed a bit, sister. Though I bet I can beat you at swords--”

Lyanna shushes him like she would as a child, chastising him for almost revealing their secret attempts at swordplay. But she does this with no fire; instead a smile has been plastered onto her face and seemed to have no intentions of falling.

“We shall put that bold statement to the test later,” Lyanna promises in a whisper. Benjen grins and nods eagerly, remnants of the boy she left behind shining through his eyes.

“I must say, Lyanna,” Brandon calls from a ways ahead, hand perched confidently on the pommel of the sword at his hip. “Widowhood becomes you. You’re as bright as a midday sun.”

Sensing the mild accusation in his voice, Lyanna swallows some of her joy and tries to appear somewhat pained. “Am I meant to wallow in grief forever?” She returns, crossing her arms. “I left my sorrows behind in Storm’s End. Now I come back to my family in hopes that they’ll take me as I am.” She’s frowning now, though her brother keeps his cocky grin.

Ned comes up from behind her and wraps a comforting arm around her shoulder. “Ignore him,” he mumbles, giving her a squeeze. “He’s happy to have you back. Come, let’s see father.”

Lyanna nods and walks away with him, but not without shooting another glare Brandon’s way. _I’m not even back an hour and I am already quarreling with him,_ Lyanna notes sourly. Queerly enough, this information makes her smile. _It is just like before._

She walks the familiar halls of Winterfell feeling as if she hadn’t been gone a day. She passes servants whom she’d known for years, nodding in their direction when they smiled at her. As she walks along, she drags her fingertips on the stone walls, biting her lip to keep from smiling at the warmth that they emanated. Nothing has changed, not in the least. She sensed that even her rooms would have been untouched since she left.

Ned and Lyanna arrive at their father’s solar, Benjen trailing behind. He seemed to sense that a conversation was to occur that would not involve him. And indeed, Ned shoos him away with a pointed look, the poor boy frowning as he stalked off.

Lyanna looks to Ned with a lifted brow. “Should I be frightened to pass through these doors?” She asks of him, nodding to their father’s solar.

“No, no,” Ned insists quickly. “But I’m sure father has questions about your health, and perhaps you’d wish to keep such things private.”

Lyanna crosses her arms. “But _you_ will listen in on this?”

Ned’s face flushes red as he begins to fluster. Lyanna rolls her eyes and pats his cheek. “I-I only meant, Lya, that… Well, that…”

“I’m glad to see that little has changed, dearest Ned,” she tells him with a small smile, replacing the hand on his cheek with a kiss. “Very well. Whatever you two have planned for me, I intend to go along with it.”

Ned nods and shuffles from foot to foot awkwardly before knocking on the door. Their father’s booming voice bids them to come in; Ned opens the door, letting Lyanna through first before walking in behind her.

Her father stood behind his desk, eyeing her queerly. Lyanna took a moment to observe him; his long beard had greyed even more in the year she was gone, and he seemed to be just beginning to bald. He was still as hale and robust as he always was, however, still tall and wide and build like a bear. His grey eyes were as familiar and emotional as they always had been.

Lyanna smiles and rushes into her father’s arms. He embraces her warmly, kissing the top of her head as he does. “I missed you dearly, papa,” she speaks into his leather jerkin with more emotion than she expected to emerge from her. Before she knew, there were tears burning her eyes. Despite that, she looks up at him. “Tell me, did you miss you too?”

“Aye, of course I did, child,” he said in a voice that nearly sounded tired. “Though you were hardly gone long enough for me to miss you.”

Lyanna frowns. “And how long does your only daughter have to be gone before you miss her terribly?” 

That’s enough to draw a chuckle out of him. “I see marriage hasn’t dulled your wits in the least,” he tells her fondly, squeezing her shoulders.

“My wits were the only thing that helped me to bear that marriage,” Lyanna returns, her joy giving way to sudden frustration. She knows it’s the wrong thing to say; she had worked hard to keep her family in the dark regarding the horrid state of her relationship with Robert. Now she wondered if it was worth keeping the secret; there was no pointing in sparing anyone the truth.

Irritated and a little flustered, Lyanna pulls away from her father to sit in the chair opposite his. Ned walks to stand beside her, his hand on the back of her chair. Lyanna looked absently to a bronze sextant her father had on display on his desk, the item suddenly more interesting than reuniting with her father.

“Lyanna,” he calls to her cautiously. She can feel his eyes boring into her. “Did something happen in Storm’s End?” The question is so vague and open-ended, Lyanna could think of a hundred ways to respond to it. Instead she purses her lips and considers her words carefully.

“Other than my husband’s death, very little happened. It was a tiring place to be.” It wasn’t far from the truth, but it was not the truth either. Lyanna bites back an exhausted sigh. “But my duty there is done. I’ve married Robert like you asked, and now he is dead and I am Lady of Storm’s End no longer. I am only Lyanna of House Stark, and that is what I intend to be until the end of my days.” She raises her eyes defiantly to her father’s. “I’ll not be bartered away like a prized broodmare again. Not that anyone would want me anyways.” She adds that last part under her breath. She feels too much like a child being scrutinized under her father’s judging eyes again. It’s a feeling that discomforts her.

“And why wouldn’t anyone want you? Are you not my daughter and a lady of House Stark? Are you not your mother’s daughter?” Her father asks simply of her.

“I’m no maid, father,” she tells him flatly. It does not come out as confident as she wished it, and she blushes immediately. “What’s more, there’s been horrible rumors about me as of late. No doubt you’ve heard them.” Stannis had heard them, and he was about as absorbent as a rock when it came to such gossip.

“We’ve heard them,” Ned speaks up from beside her. He looks caught between embarrassment and confusion. Lyanna looks to him, then to her father again.

“And do you believe them?” She asks.

The silence that follows is unsettling. Shocked, Lyanna feels her throat burn and her eyes water, for if her family believed she was a murderess, then was there any safe place to be? She is too stunned to speak, still looking between her father and brother as if they had laid a sentence of death on her head.

“Lya,” Ned offers weakly. “We don’t… We don’t want to believe them, of course…”

“Words are wind,” her father adds.

“And yet the wind has knocked out all of your senses,” Lyanna manages to spit out. “I may have despised the man I called husband, but I did not, and _would_ not do something so horrid. It is for your sake, father, and Ned’s that I withstood him, withstood his… his…”

His cruelty, she wanted to say. His drunken gropings, and the rough way he handled her body. His explosive arguing and his toxic masculinity that insisted that he was her better, her master simply because of the cock between his legs. His infidelity, so flagrant and appalling, so insulting and disgusting that it made her feel less than valuable, less than loved or wanted. There was a hundred things about Robert that she despised that perhaps other women may have endured with better grace. But Lyanna had known from the start that they would never mesh well. That the gods forced him off his horse was a blessing that she never knew she needed.

Lyanna wraps her arms around herself tighter. “Robert is dead, but I did not kill him,” Lyanna mutters bitterly. “That was his own foolishness.”

She feels Ned’s hand on her shoulder, warm and comforting. Her father sighs, though whether it is from relief or exhaustion, she cannot tell.

“Go now, child,” her father urges of her gently. “Get some rest and we’ll speak more on this later.”

Lyanna nods, feeling more and more like the girl she was years ago. She rises, and Ned stands protectively at her side, her personal sentinel as he offered his arm and led him out. She glance at him briefly to gauge his reaction. His face was largely unreadable, drawing something of a blank save for his eyes. There was something wavering there, something close to melancholy.

“You believe me, don’t you?” She asks softly of him as they exited the solar.

Ned nods almost imperceptibly. “I’m sorry,” he says plainly.

“What for?”

“I feel like this is partially my fault.” He then shakes his head and manages a little smile. “If you’re not too tired, you ought to meet Catelyn. She’s been the only woman around here for some time; perhaps she could benefit from your company.”

Lyanna blinks at the sudden subject change. She had almost completely forgotten of Brandon’s marriage to the Tully girl, despite having been in attendance for their wedding. It seemed like an age ago, taking place just a fortnight before she made her decision not to ride out to God’s Eye to meet the prince. She wonders, only briefly, how much different things would be if she had ridden out instead.

“I would like to meet her,” Lyanna admits. She recalls Catelyn Tully as being a beautiful woman, with a head of lovely auburn hair and eyes as clear and blue as a calm sea. She had been so happy to her wedding, and so lovely beside Brandon, who had cut an exceedingly dashing figure that night. Lyanna’s head had been swimming with thoughts too heavy for her to understand to have noticed much beyond these generalities.

“Good,” Ned returns, still putting on his wan smile. “I’ll take you to her, then.”

She supposed this would be as good a way as any to readjust to this altered life in Winterfell. Out with one companion, and in with another. Only she had a feeling this one would be decidedly less horrid.


	4. Rhaegar II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar decides to move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a timeskip folks! A little over a year has passed from the last chapter to this one. For a quick overview of ages at this point...
> 
> Lyanna: 18  
> Rhaegar: 26  
> Cersei: 19  
> Rhaenys: 5  
> Aegon: 3
> 
> Enjoy!

Even when he was not in the throne room, there was always a steady stream of people who required Rhaegar’s audience. Most, as it were, would come directly to his solar, knowing it the quickest way to him, and involved less pomp and circumstance as opposed to a public audience. Rhaegar wished he could say that their concerns were interesting. At best, they were of mild importance. At worst, they were completely mundane.

He had hoped this much complaining would end soon. He had seen more than a full year as king, and managed to stabilize much of the realm after his ascension. He’d invited back the men who his father had estranged, did the bidding of Dorne for every request they sent his way, poured money into the city for infrastructure, created jobs for smallfolk as he began renovations of sections of the Red Keep. He’d reformed the small council, even, removing the men who’d done little more than lick his father’s boot and feed his paranoia. He replaced them with men who could lead the realm to greatness, not pull it back away from it.

He was busy, to say the least, busy enough that he could be distracted from his more personal matters. Elia’s death for one, which was a death of a good woman, no longer weighed so heavily on his mind, but it did not leave him entirely. How could it, when she had left their two children for him to raise? Aegon and Rhaenys were growing up without a mother. Perhaps Aegon was still too young to understand that, as he only knew of his ‘papa’ and loved him dearly. Rhaenys had grown past her initial sorrow, but Rhaegar knew it pained her. As a child she could forget for long time periods; but what will he do when she needed a woman’s guidance, a mother’s love? A septa could only do so much.

A knock at the door stirs him from these dark thoughts, as it always does. He bids the next party entrance, and was surprised to see the children who’d he’d just been considering. Even more surprising was who escorted them.

“Good afternoon, your grace,” Cersei Lannister’s sultry voice bid him from the doorway. “I hope we’re not interrupting anything.” Aegon had held onto her hand walking in, but had broken away from her to rush to his father’s side.

“Hullo, papa!” He cried out, grinning up at him. He was a happy child, with round pink cheeks and sparkling purple eyes. Rhaegar smiles at him, smoothing back his hair before turning his attention back to Cersei. 

“Hello, Lady Cersei,” he tells her, spying Rhaenys standing a ways from her side, arms crossed and glaring up at the lady. He rises to give a respectful bow. “How did you manage to become strapped to these two hellions? Is their septa indisposed?” Cersei Lannister was not one to be shouldered with the job of attending to his two children; he had made her father Master of Coin on his new small council, after all, and even without her father’s new title, she was a Lannister and nothing to be sneezed at.

“Oh, no, I insisted, you see,” Cersei returns, throwing him a dazzling smile. “Their septa seemed as if she needed a little help, and I was more than happy to offer it. Your little princess and prince are the loveliest children I’ve ever seen.”

Cersei Lannister was also sinfully beautiful. Her skin was fair and unblemished, her green eyes bright and sharp, and her hair long and golden. Even through skirts of silk there was no question as to her figure, especially when she squared her shoulders back so. With round full breasts, a slim waist, and lovely hips, it was a wonder that she was not married yet.

Rhaegar smiles at her, a gesture that is not difficult to do given her visage. “That is very kind of you,” he tells her, trying not to stagger as Aegon tugged on his hand incessantly. He looks back to Rhaenys, who still had a dark look on her face. She was by far the fiercest five year old he knew, and he’d been the object of one of her withering glares before. He cannot help but wonder what had set her afire so. “Rhaenys? Is there something you want to tell me?” He asks her, trying not to chuckle as she directed her pout his way.

“I want to see Dany,” she told him gruffly. “This lady made us--”

“Lady Cersei,” Rhaegar corrected. “Her name is Lady Cersei, Rhaenys.”

She didn’t seem to care. “This lady Cersei made us come here!” She calls out, uncrossing her arms to ball her hands into little fists. “I _said_ papa’s busy, but she made us come!” She even stomps her foot for emphasis.

“Now, now, little princess,” Cersei tells Rhaenys with a smile that twitched at the corners. “I promised we’d go see Princess Daenerys after this. Didn’t you want to see your father? I’m sure he missed you so.”

Rhaenys glares at Cersei again, then back to him. Rhaegar keeps his chuckle restrained, wanting to let her know that he took her very seriously. “If you come here and give me a kiss, I’ll let you go see Daenerys,” he tells her, noting with pleasure how she relaxed and gave a mature little sigh. Then she walked over to him and stood on her toes, waiting for Rhaegar to bend down and let her kiss him. He does so, and accepts the wet peck on the cheek with one of his own. She giggles sweetly. When Rhaegar is straightened again, he finally allows himself to chuckle once he sees her dark eyes sparkle.

“You do not have to take them,” Rhaegar tells Cersei softly. “I will call for their septa and one other of their caretakers to see to them.” It stung him to name these two women, strangers really, as the ones who dedicated most of their time caring for his children. If they had a mother, she would gladly follow after them. If Elia were still here, that was all she would do. Even if his own mother were still here, he knew she would treat them like her own.

Cersei gives a warm chuckle. “Oh, they are no trouble at all,” she assures him as she laid a bold hand on his arm. “Really, I do so love being around them. They are such sweet children, so calm and lovable--”

A metallic clatter could be heard behind them. Rhaegar turns around in time to see that Aegon had climbed up onto his desk and tipped his goblet of wine onto the letter he was penning.

“Uh oh,” Aegon says, giggling at his wine stained hand. He sticks it into his mouth to lick off the red liquid.

Rhaegar sighs. “That’s kind of you to say,” he says flatly, moving back to his desk. He pulls a handkerchief from one of his drawers and takes his son’s sticky hand to wipe off the mix of saliva and wine.

“Uh oh,” Aegon repeats, still smiling. Rhaegar can’t even grimace at this inconvenience. Once he’s cleaned Aegon’s hand, he kisses the top of his silver head, pulls him off his desk, and gives him a pat on the rump to urge him forward. He rushes to Rhaenys’s side, who smiles mischievously at him.

“Two little horrors, they are,” Rhaegar says without any fire. “But they mean the world to me.” He adds this in a soft voice, smiling fondly at the children looking like perfect cherubs as they held each others’ hands.

Cersei clears her throat and nods. “It is a shame that Princess Elia cannot see them now,” she says, with an emotion too sinister to be sorrow on her face. “I know what it’s like to lose a mother at a young age. So often I had wished my father would remarry, just so I may know a mother’s love again…” She trailed off rather dramatically, eyes searching his curiously. He cannot put his finger on it, but something about Cersei Lannister sat ill with him. Perhaps it was in the sincerity of her words... or the lack thereof. 

Rhaegar nods. Her message was one he’d considered often. “The Lady Joanna was a good woman,” he offers, unsure of what else to say. What _did_ she expect him to say, especially in front of his children? Marry me, Lady Cersei, and give my children a mother? 

Cersei eyed him with what appeared to be intention to speak again, but she is cut off by Jon Connington bursting through the doors of his solar, papers in his hand.

“Those damned Dornishmen don’t know to back off,” his flame-haired (and flame-faced, as it happened to be) Hand of the King curses as he walks in. “They’re like damned hounds, always at--”

“Jon,” Rhaegar says loudly and flatly, interrupting his tirade. “Say hello to our Lady of Lannister.”

Jon looks up, seeming surprised to see her there. "Hello, Lady Cersei," he said gruffly. Aegon has run up to his side and began to tug at his pant leg. He breaks into a smile upon seeing Rhaegar's son, patting his head. "And hello, little prince. Our sweet princess is here too, I see."

Rhaenys makes a show of marching up to him, extending her hand for him to kiss. Jon humors her, bowing low as he kissed her knuckles. He was remarkably good with children. It was a pity that it was becoming less and less likely that he'd have any of his own.

"I've got some news for you," Jon tells him, his hand absentmindedly stroking Aegon's hair as he jumped up and down.

"Don't you always?" Rhaegar says wryly. He looks back to Cersei, whose smile from before had been replaced with a frown that threatened to turn into a scowl. "Lady Cersei, if it is truly no trouble, could you take them to their aunt's rooms? There shall be septas aplenty in there to take them off your hands."

Upon being called on, Cersei smiles again, pink lips full and lovely. "Of course, your grace. I would be honored," she tells him with a reverent curtsey. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end; yes, there was _something_ about her that put him ill at ease. "Come along now, little ones. Let us go see the princess." Her voice was cheery enough as she extended her hands toward his children. Aegon gladly took one, rocking on his heels once he'd captured it. Rhaenys, however, glowered and tossed her dark hair over her shoulder. She rose her chin defiantly and simply walked past Cersei's outstretched hand, her red skirts swishing dramatically.

Cersei's smiled wavered ever so slightly. As she followed Rhaenys out, she looked over her shoulder once more, casting a sultry look his way.

Once she was gone, Jon burst out into laughter. "Your daughter has more fire in her than what's good for her," he noted, grinning.

Rhaegar gives a doleful sigh. "I don't know what do with them," he says miserably. "I can't be strict with them to save my own skin. And their septas no doubt coddle them more than they should be coddled."

"They need a mother," Jon tells him seriously, giving a voice to Rhaegar's thoughts.

"They do," Rhaegar agrees with a grimace. _And I need a third child._ He glances down to the papers in his hands. "What's the issue with the Dornishmen?"

Jon makes a disgruntled noise as he flipped through the papers. "Their requests are more numerous and becoming increasingly ridiculous," he says with ire. "Some of them have been sneaking whores into the castle and ask you give them easier passage. Other want extravagant foods, expensive wines. They ask for better rooms and more. They’re an expensive nuisance, Rhaegar, and me and half the court want them gone."

The Dornishman host in King's Landing had been invited as an act of goodwill. No Martells were in attendance at court, but they sent plenty of their loyalists. No one quite enjoyed their presence, but it was a necessary measure in order to demonstrate Rhaegar's respect for his late spouse's homeland. It had backfired terribly, however, and it seems everyone was growing irritated at their presence.

"They shan't have any of that," Rhaegar tells Jon nonchalantly, walking behind his desk to take his seat. “In fact, I suspect they’ll be leaving soon.”

Jon eyes him curiously. “And how is that, your grace?”

“I’m going to host a tourney,” Rhaegar says, peeling his wine soaked paper off his desk. It was useless now; he’ll have to start it all over. He fought back a sigh as he tossed it in the wastebin. A father who had hoped to instill a sense of right or wrong would have scolded his son for being so reckless. It seemed that when it came to discipline, he was rather hopeless. When he looks back up, he finds Jon still eyeing him with a measure of confusion.

“How will that get them off our backs?” Jon finally asks.

“Because I will be searching for a bride during it. And no Dornishman will wish to stay once I’ve chosen one; none will wish to stay as I’m courting one either.” He picks up the stained handkerchief he used to clean Aegon’s hands and wiped at the wine on his desk. “They’ll return to Dorne with bruised pride, and I will have myself a wife.”

Jon’s face glows with approval at this, a small smirk hiding in his red beard. “A good decision, your grace,” he says. “It’s been more than a year now anyways; you’ve paid your respects. Now you find a woman worthy of you.”

Rhaegar didn’t quite appreciate the implication in Jon’s words. He didn’t mean to sound as if he’d been anxious to put Elia behind him and move on; with his late wife died a piece of him that cannot be replaced by any other. She showed him what a woman’s strength looked like, taught what it meant to be a father and a husband, helped to build him into the man he was today. She gave him two children that he would throw himself on a sword for. Nay, this wasn’t meant to _replace_ Elia. Had he his third child, there would be no need for him to remarry at all, and even though he didn’t love her, love was not something he desired for himself to start. 

“I will find a woman, certainly, though I doubt she will possess half of Elia’s goodness and strength,” Rhaegar says gruffly. He did not want to linger long on the topic of her; Jon never understood why he had been fond of Elia, and he feared that he never will. “We will invite every Great House, even those without daughters.” He pauses, contemplating something. “What daughters are there to choose from?”

Rhaegar can see Jon flip through pages of a genealogy book behind his eyes. “Well, Lady Cersei Lannister, obviously. She’s a beauty who would please your grace.” This was true; she was beautiful, and possessed an interest in his children. But he would be a fool to limit his options purely on beauty. “There’s Hoster Tully’s younger girl. Lyra or Lysa or something. Then there is…” He trails off, making a face. “That’s it, really, as far as Great Houses go. Well… except for the Stark girl.” He says this in a mumble, disapproval flickering across his face.

Rhaegar had all but forgotten about her. “Lyanna,” he says aloud, reminding both Jon and himself of her name. 

“Robert’s widow,” Jon corrected. “Though for all we know, she likely killed him herself and danced around his body.” His face goes dark as he pins his gaze to Rhaegar’s. “I know you fancied her once, your grace, but it’s best to let her go. She’s a vile man’s widow, certainly is no maid, and a northerner to boot.”

“A Stark,” Rhaegar clarified. “We have no alliances from the North.”

Jon grunts. “You’d benefit more from a southron alliance, your grace,” he insists, brushing the topic aside with a wave of his hand. “We’ll invite her and her family, if that’s what you’d like, but I’m warning you: you’ll set yourself up for disappointment.”

Rhaegar shrugs. “I didn’t say I planned to pursue her. Only that she is an option.” He didn’t dream of her as he used to, when the promise of fulfilling the prophecy was so close that it tasted sweet on his tongue while all other thoughts were bitter and metallic. He’d come so close before she made him fall so far. The reminder irritates him.

“Cersei and Hoster’s girl are both maidens, as far as we know,” Jon add the last part in a mutter. “Tywin’s girl is more suited for you, I think. And it would please him greatly, though his pleasure is the last of my concerns.”

Rhaegar nods absentmindedly. “The Lords of Crownlands will require invitations as well, but I should like to cast my net wide. Invite whoever else you think is worth inviting. Make it clear that I’m searching for a bride without using such words.” He sighs. “Let us try to get this underway as swiftly as possible.”

Jon nodded. “As you wish, your grace.”

In truth, this was not a terrible situation to be in. Rhaegar knew very well he would his pick of any woman that was in attendance, and there were plenty of lovely maids those would be eager to pledge themselves to him. The difficulty in the situation lied in the aptness of the woman, for in truth, this was an endeavor he was taking on for his children. It was a matter of _prophecy_. One couldn’t tell from looks alone whether or not a girl possessed a single maternal bone in her body. One can’t glance at a girl and decide if she was the key to saving the world.

But then, Rhaegar supposed that last part wasn’t true. It had happened once, after all. Whether it would happen again, he hadn’t the faintest clue.


	5. Lyanna III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News arrives from the south.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Enjoy!

"Cat!" Lyanna calls out from down the hall, bare feet moving quickly on the stone floors. It was a lovely day out, and she'd hate for Catelyn to miss it. She knocks twice at her door, but upon hearing no response, Lyanna barges in. "Cat, enough being lazy! Babe or not, even Brandon's gotten out of bed by--"

She's silenced at the sight of her goodsister on her knees at the bedside. She has her hands folded in what Lyanna presumed to be prayer. Lyanna stands quietly in the doorway, waiting for her to finish. When she does, Catelyn rises, staggering a bit as she regained her balance, and smiled softly at Lyanna.

“My idiot of a brother ought to build you a sept,” Lyanna says seriously raising her brows. “There’s land enough for one.”

Catelyn only waves her hand dismissively. “It’s no issue,” she says with a shrug. Before Lyanna can further protect, she grins and speaks again. "And you know I'm allowed some extra sleep, don’t you?" She chides her gently, smoothing her skirts. "Being with child isn't exactly easy."

Lyanna rolls her eyes and moves forward, grabbing her hands. "Well, I've made it my job to get you out of bed and moving everyday," Lyanna returns. "So come along now; father's got an announcement for us and he refuses to speak it without you."

Catelyn smiles at that; Lyanna knew she would. She did so love to feel a true part of the family. What Lyanna didn't tell her was that she refused to hear her father's announcement until Catelyn was brought down with her. But what Cat didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

"What do you suppose he's announcing?" Catelyn asks curiously as they make their way down the hall.

Lyanna shrugs. "Truthfully, I haven't a clue. He received a letter this morning and hasn't told a soul about it."

In the year since Lyanna's return home, she had struck up an unlikely friendship between herself and her brother's wife. Catelyn was in all aspects a true and proper lady, endlessly courteous as well as quiet and submissive. Lyanna had initially mistaken such traits for stupidity, but she soon learned that Catelyn Tully was far from stupid. She was sharper than a needle, witty as can be, enormously gentle, and as Lyanna quickly learned, rather unhappy. She learned the root of her unhappiness rather quickly.

As they walk down a flight of stairs, Lyanna puts a defensive hand on Catelyn's growing middle. She was in her fourth moon and sporting a very small round bump. "How is our little lord or lady doing today?" Lyanna asks kindly.

"Blessedly well," Catelyn answers. "For once I haven't woken up with the need to empty my stomach of dinner the night before."

Lyanna chuckles. "That is good to hear. And was my brother a proper gentleman last night?” Catelyn’s cheeks burn red at that, like Lyanna knew they would. Lyanna laughs. “Come now, I know very well when Brandon decides to pay his wife a visit in the night. Was he good to you?”

Catelyn jerks her face forward, still blushing. “I’m not answering that.”

Lyanna laughs again. It was always best to try and make light of Catelyn and Brandon’s marriage, to find the good bits of it. For in truth, Brandon was a neglectful husband, as Lyanna always knew he would be. He would spend half his nights in another woman’s bed, or out drinking with his friends, or riding, or on a hunt. His excursions managed to make Catelyn a rather miserable and lonely wife, a feeling Lyanna knew all too well. Perhaps that’s why she liked so much to take care of her.

They arrive to her father’s solar with the last of Catelyn’s blush leaving her face. Cat gives a dutiful curtsey to the men in the room; Lyanna gives a friendly nudge in the ribs to Benjen.

“I’m sorry to have kept you all waiting,” Catelyn says with a small smile, gave flickering between Brandon, Ned, and father. Brandon looks bored, leaning against wall beside Ned, who gave Catelyn a small nod before looking back to his father. 

“Well then, since we’re all here,” her father says gruffly, looking pointedly to Lyanna. He lifts up the folded piece of parchment on his desk and waves it. “I thought you should all like to know that our good King Rhaegar Targaryen has invited us to a tourney in King’s Landing. It appears to me that he’s in search for a new bride, and has invited every lord in the realm with a daughter to spare.”

The room falls into an eerie silence. Lyanna stares at her father, not trying to hide her shock. Surely, he wasn’t implying that Lyanna was to go south so Rhaegar may sniff at her skirts. Surely, he didn’t believe that Lyanna would consent to such a thing, or that Lyanna would even wish to go south at all.

Brandon is the first to speak, and naturally, it is an outburst. “Is he mad?! Did he forget just how well the _last_ tourney with that bastard in attendance went?” he shouts, accusatory eyes landing on Lyanna.

Lyanna crosses her arms. “Oh, I remember,” she returns sharply. “He threw you off your horse and you nearly throttled him for it.”

“Was _that_ why I jumped out of my seat in the stands?” Brandon throws back, not one to back down anymore than she was. “I happen to remember a certain silver-haired half-wit dropping a crown of roses in my slattern sister’s lap--”

“Slattern!” Lyanna interrupted, enraged. “After all this time, you still believe I did something for him to give it to me? You make me wish I had, so at least your ridiculous accusations would have some base in a pleasant truth--”

“ _Enough_ ,” Rickard booms, rising as he slammed his hands down on the desk. “By the gods, you two are too young to be living in the past so, and too old to be arguing like children.” His angry glare settles on Lyanna, then Brandon, where it stays. “In any case, Brandon, you are staying here. You’ve a wife to look after, and gods know you could do with the responsibilities Eddard has been shouldering for you.” He huffs, then lowers himself back in his seat.

Brandon is silenced, though disgruntled, and Lyanna is mollified, but not entirely. “I hope you don’t mean to imply that _I’m_ going,” she tells her father, shifting the brunt of her anger from Brandon to him. “I have no desire to go to another tourney for as long as I live. Especially not one where I may find myself betrothed to any man of any status.” It was unspeakable. To marry again would be crippling enough. To marry Rhaegar was to open up a box of memories and emotions she surely could not handle.

“Tell me, girl,” her father says calmly. “Do you intend to live and die here for the rest of your days?”

Lyanna lifts her chin defiantly. “I do. This is my home, is it not?”

“It is. Yet every bird must fly away eventually.”

“I’ve flown already. I flew and came back,” Lyanna tells him, hands balling into fists. She feel’s Catelyn’s gentle touch at her wrist. “And I intend to stay in this nest until I perish.”

“Lya,” Ned called to her, looking tired and concerned. One glance at him softens her a bit. “You’ll always be welcome here. But father’s right; you ought to try again.”

She looks between her brother and father, incredulous. “And what makes you two so sure that the king will choose me?” Lyanna says, crossing her arms. “Among all the women there, some who will surely be younger than me, more beautiful, some who aren’t widows or lacking a maidenhead, what makes you think he’ll choose me? And more importantly, why would I want him?”

There is a brief silence again, with every gaze in the room falling on her and softening. She feels as if there’s something they know that she doesn’t, and it frustrates her.

“No one said you must marry him, though it would be advantageous to have a Stark on the throne,” her father finally says solemnly. “I thought you might enjoy the trip south. And if the king were to ask for you, I would leave such a decision to you. You will have the freedom to choose your husband this second time.”

Lyanna almost scoffs at the sentiment, but she senses the good intentions behind it. Her father was hoping to secure an alliance made of Lyanna’s own accord. There was no harm in that.

She sighs, letting go of some of her prior anger. “I will go, but do not expect much out of me,” Lyanna warns him. “I shall attend this tourney with my only goal being to enjoy myself. I cannot promise I will cross the king’s path.” Her father nods, but she continues. “In fact, I cannot even promise that I will meet his eye. I may very well make myself invisible to him.” Her father nods again, accepting her terms with a small sigh. Lyanna preens at this small victory.

“Well then,” Brandon begins in a grumble, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Who’s going with her?”

“I am!” Benjen calls out from beside her, stepping forward to show his eagerness. “Last time Lya went south, I didn’t go with her. So it’s only fair that I go. Right, father?”

Rickard nods absentmindedly, the issue clearly not too pressing to him.

“And I’ll go too,” Ned says. “If the king does ask for Lyanna’s hand--”

“Which he won’t,” Lyanna insists.

“--then I will be the one to accept on her behalf.”

"Or reject," Lyanna adds, noting with a smug smile how Ned's face colored at the prospect of having to refuse the King.

Her father nods again. “Then it’s settled,” he said. “The tourney is not until another three moons’ turns. You’ve plenty of time to prepare for the trip until then.”

Lyanna looks to him warily. “Then you’re not going, father?”

He shakes his head. “These old bones have no patience for tourneys. And I can’t say I’m fond of the capital either.” He shrugs. “Go. Enjoy yourself.”

_I plan to do just that._

She passed the rest of the day in Catelyn’s company, who wouldn’t pause her gushing over Lyanna’s upcoming trip to the capital. Attempts to derail the conversation ended in failure as Catelyn went on and on about the south, about the rumors of the capital, the stories she’d picked up. Lyanna hadn’t recalled seeing her goodsister so excited over anything. Even after supper, when the two of them retired to the den before going to bed, Catelyn brought the subject of great interest up once more. This time, Lyanna had to pause her hasty conversation with a gentle hand on her knee.

“If you’re so excited, Catelyn, why don’t you take my place and go south to woo the king?” She asked cheekily. Catelyn’s cheeks colored, and she shook her head.

“I-I’m in no condition to go! And I’m married too, of course, it would be madness to try and woo him…”

Lyanna laughs, shaking her head in amusement. “That is too bad. You would have made the prince a wonderful wife.” She grins.

Catelyn rolls her eyes. “Such thoughts are behind me now. My sister Lysa may have a chance…” She muses absent-mindedly before looking to Lyanna with embarrassment in her bright blue eyes. “Not that you don’t have a chance too, of course. If either one of you were to wed him, I shall be equally happy.”

Lyanna scoffs, crossing her arms. “I shall not,” she returns. “I’ve had my taste of marriage once. It didn’t suit me.” Lyanna did not like to speak of her marriage to Robert, and made much of a point not to. It was useless to dig up such awful memories.

Catelyn pauses, looking to her with extreme caution. “You never did tell me how Lord Baratheon treated you,” she murmured, sounding both hurt and curious. It was true that Catelyn shared many secrets with Lyanna, and she had offered little in return. Still, these were not secrets worth sharing.

“It does not matter now,” Lyanna says softly. “What is important, however, is that I return to you before your little lord or lady is born. The tourney is in three moons’ time; by then you shall be in your seventh month. The tourney will last ten days or so, I’d imagine, and then we must add another moon for travelling back…” Lyanna adds up the moons quickly. “If all goes well, I will come in time for you to scream my ear off in the birthing room.”

Catelyn chuckles and rolls her eyes goodnaturedly. “Do not worry about me. Take your time and enjoy yourself,” Catelyn assures her. “In any case, how can you be so sure that you will return? If you find yourself in the arms of a dashing king…”

“Enough, Catelyn!” Lyanna returns in a playful shout. “I am not marrying him, I promise you this. And I promise you that I shall return in time to help you with your babe.” She leans toward her to squeeze her hand. “I aim to be a wonderful unwedded aunt to your babes, so I may inspire them to scandal at every turn.” Catelyn chuckles. “Don’t laugh! I shall teach your sons how to drink any man under the table and your daughters how to ward off suitors with dirty dresses and poor table manners.”

“I’m certain you will, and that is what frightens me,” Catelyn returned smiling. “In any case, if you do return, I shall be glad to have you. You’ve brought me great joy, sister of mine.” Her eyes were foggy with tears. Lyanna swallowed the lump in her throat at the sight.

“Hush now, don’t speak in past tense,” Lyanna said curtly. “I am still here, and I will return. I would hate to come back and find you’ve already turned my chambers into a nursery. I shall never forgive you if you do.”

Catelyn’s warm chuckle was music to her ears. _No,_ Lyanna decided. _I must return. He cannot convince me to stay. Perhaps he had that power once before, but I shall not give it to him now._


	6. Rhaegar III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night of the feast, as well as many ladies, arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

It was good to see King's Landing alive again. After the sickness that had swept through and the innumerable deaths, the city sorely needed to be picked up again. The tourney, while costly on his end, would surely bolster the local trade. With more money flowing on the smallfolk's part, it meant more money for taxes. It would all work out in the end.

While Rhaegar was glad to see the economic side of the tourney come to fruition, others around him were plenty more eager for the festivities. Tonight was the first night of the tourney, and would be marked with a feast. Rhaenys had already changed into her best gown for the occasion, a flowy garment of yellow and silver, and her dark curls were tamed into a petite bun. She looked enormously lovely, the spitting image of her mother, whose dark skin glowed similarly and whose smile was a radiant as her daughter's.

"Septa Renei said that I may wear mama's necklace tonight, if I ask you nicely," she said in excited tones, her legs swinging from her spot on a chair in Rhaegar's chambers. "The one with the gold chain and pretty ruby."

Rhaegar smiled at her from his place across the room, his boots up on a box as a boy polished them for him. "That is generous of your septa," he allowed softly.

She eyes him carefully before glancing to the jewelry box on his dresser. "May I, papa?" She asked sweetly, dark eyes wide. Rhaegar chuckles and waves his hand in the direction of the box. Rhaenys makes an excited noise before hopping down from her seat. She has to stand on her toes to reach the jewelry box, a task she asks no help with, but she is determined enough to do it herself. Once it is pulled down, she plops herself on the floor to dig around for the necklace.

As his daughter shuffled around for the necklace, the doors to his chamber burst open. Aegon makes an entrance, silver curls bouncing as he bounded into the room, dressed in his best finery. An exasperated looking septa trails behind him, smiling weakly down at the little prince.

"Papa!" He exclaimed, running to his side before climbing up on the box, managing to get very much in the shoeshiner's way. He threw his arms around his father's neck as he stood half on the box and half on Rhaegar's knee.

"Someone's excited I see," he notes warmly, smoothing back his son's hair. As soon as he does, however, he's already wriggling out of his lap and back onto the floor, accidentally giving the shoeshiner a kick in the arm as he did. Rhaegar threw him an apologetic glance.

"He's been in high spirits all day, your grace, and on high energy," the septa informed him as she tried to take hold of Aegon as he ran by. He slips right out of reach, giggling as he does so. "Someone must have let him into the sweetcakes earlier today, for he hasn't stopped to rest for a single moment."

His son then rounds to Rhaenys on the floor, who seemed to have just located the teardrop ruby necklace she had mentioned before. Then, in the destructive fashion that marked most young boys, he knocks the box over, eliciting a squeal of distress from his sister.

"Aegon!" Rhaegar admonishes sharply, his voice raised to his son for perhaps the first time in his short life. The boy is evidently startled by it, as he pins his father with purple eyes the size of saucers. His lower lip wobbles for a few precarious moments before he drops to his rump, crying fat tears.

Rhaegar sighed, leaning back in his chair to rub his temple. The septa quietly makes her way to Aegon's side, softly whispering words of comfort mixed with very light admonishment. To call it a scolding would be too generous; it was nothing more than steady, warning whispering.

"Now, now, no need to cry, little prince," he heard her say. "You need to be handsome and fresh faced for everyone tonight, especially the ladies. You don't want to give your father's future bride a scare, now do you?"

Rhaegar freezes, eyes darting to Rhaenys, who paused picking up the precious ornaments to stare at the septa in horror.

"Bride?" She asked in a small voice. "Septa Renei, what does that mean?"

"A bride is a woman who will be married," the septa answered with a clueless smile. "Tonight is--"

"That is enough, good septa," Rhaegar interrupts firmly. "I do not require your services now. You may leave."

The septa, perhaps sensing she made a mistake, colored red, and nodded as she curtseyed and slinked away.

Rhaenys started at him with wide, questioning eyes. "Papa is getting married?" She asked, looking on the verge of tears. "But... But... You're married to _mama_."

Suppressing a sigh, Rhaegar shooed the shoeshiner away. He picks up his box and bows, leaving quickly so as to escape the tenuous room. Aegon must have sensed the shift in air as well, as he stared quietly between his sister and father, tears no longer rolling down his cheek.

"Mama is not here anymore, little one. Therefore I must marry another," he began to explain. He had planned on telling this to Rhaenys later, once he'd already chosen his bride. This was too soon.

"You can't do that," she insisted, teary-eyed. "I don't want another mama."

"She cannot replace your mother, Rhaenys. But I want a wife, to make me happy. And give you a sister." He leaves his chair to kneel beside her. "Wouldn't you like that? A sister?"

She looked away as she considered it, though it was clear that it sat ill with her. Aegon stood up from beside her, oblivious to the conversation, and walked to his father, staring at him expectantly.

"Papa yelled," he complained gently.

Rhaegar sighs and pulls him into his side, kissing the top of his head. "I'm sorry for yelling, Aegon," he says softly. "Here, let's go for the feast before anymore tears are shed." He rises, taking Aegon's hand in his own, and extending one to Rhaenys. She remains sitting on the floor, solemn-faced, for moment longer before rising reluctantly. She does not take her father's hand, however. She walks past him and to the door.

Rhaegar suppresses his second sigh. This was going to be a long night.  
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One by one, lords came to the high table with their daughters at their side, paying their respects and making their introductions. Rhaegar had to admit that while he expected this to happen, he had hoped for a night of quiet observation. He wished to see these daughters as they were naturally; not when their fathers trounced them up to him and demanded them to be on their best behaviors.

More shocking, however, was what some lords deemed acceptable to present to him. More than once, girls who could be no older than two-and-ten were presented to him, perhaps falsely believing that their freshly-flowered youth would be of a greater attraction to him. To those men, Rhaegar gave a polite smile, and a look that he hoped translated into utter disappointment.

In truth, this was all wasted time. His children fidgeted at his side, Aegon becoming especially restless as woman after woman were presented to him. He knew that once this was over, he could feel comfortable enough to send them along to play with the other children. He needed a clear view of the hall first.

Among the first to be brought to him was Hoster Tully's second daughter, Lysa. She was a small and passing lovely, with long auburn locks and fair skin. She seemed quiet and anxious at her father's side, who would not pause once to laud her.

"She's a good woman, your grace, and minds herself as such," Rhaegar recalled him saying. "She'd make any man a wonderful wife, just as good as my firstborn. Catelyn's got another babe on the way, as you may know, your grace."

Rhaegar smiled tightly through all this, nodding. He didn't care for what Hoster had to say about his daughter. He wanted to learn about his daughter _from_ his daughter.

It was hopeless. No man allowed his daughter to speak; every father spoke of their obedience, their loveliness, their silence... It was a tiring task.

“Your Grace, may I present to you my daughter.” A deep familiar voice shook him out of his reverie, and he meets the eye of Tywin Lannister. “Though I’m sure you two are already acquainted.”

Rhaegar looks to Cersei, smiling softly. She was a vision in a daringly low cut red gown, her full breasts and wide hips on tasteful display. Her golden hair spread across her shoulders and breast, touching bare skin that no doubt every man in the room too wished to touch.

“That we are. I hope you are enjoying the night, my lady,” he tells her. She smiles demurely and lowers herself into a curtsey.

“I am, your grace. ‘Tis a lovely feast,” she admits. “Though I fear my eyes have been oft drawn to the little prince and princess. I am not the only one; the ladies I am seated with have expressed a great desire to know your children. I told them I am already introduced; perhaps I may take them off your hands?” She grins at Rhaenys, who sulks back. “I know we shall have great fun together.”

“I want play!” Aegon shouted from beside him, climbing over the table to reach Cersei’s side. Rhaegar can't even scold him before his feet hit the floor again, and he's running around Cersei excitedly.

"I fear I have little choice in this," Rhaegar notes warmly. He leans over to Rhaenys. "Go on then, little one."

She frowns deeper, and crosses her arms. "I don't want to sit with your brides," she complains softly, luckily out of earshot from Cersei and Tywin.

"They are not my brides," he tells her in a firmer voice. "Besides-- I need a little bird among them to tell me who is horrible and who is fair."

The idea of a secret mission pleases her some. She huffs and nods, but ultimately goes to Cersei's side.

"I shall keep a close eye on them, your grace," Cersei assures him with a dazzling grin.

Rhaegar nods, smiling as he saw her off with Aegon's hand in her own and Rhaenys trailing behind in a stubborn fashion. Lord Tywin paused to bow low to him, his face as stoic as ever.

The rest of the presentations blow by quickly, and Rhaegar is finally left to examine the hall. He found Aegon and Rhaenys at a table surrounded by ladies cooing over them. Rhaenys appeared in the middle of telling a gaudy story, as Rhaegar judged by her dramatic hand gestures, while Aegon wriggled in Cersei's lap, hopping off to circle the table excitedly.

He spotted familiar families; that of Mace Tyrell's, Hoster Tully's, Jon Arryn's. Stannis Baratheon was nowhere in sight, but then again, Stannis had no daughters and a well known aversion to grand gatherings. The Martells too were not present-- nor was any Dornishman. As predicted, they left the city after the announcement of the tourney, much to Jon Connington's pleasure. And then, beside the Tully and Arryn host was _her_.

She did not come to the table to be presented, though she had two brothers to accompany her. Instead it seemed she kept her seat, laughing and smiling fondly upon her brothers and the men around her. She was just as he remembered her; brightly burning, full lovely in the way that all wild things were lovely. Familiar dark brown tresses hung in unbrushed curls, her grey eyes cold and hot all at once.

He is filled with sudden bitterness at the thought of what might have been. Even now, she refuses him her presence, only this time there is no apologetic note to accompany it.

He looks away, too spiteful to give her another thought, and knowing full well that if he stared too long, his heart would grow tender. If she did not pay him any mind, then why should he?

The night carries on, and Rhaegar observes it all from his high table. Couples danced, men drank, women tittered and giggled, and the mood was light and lovely. Jon Connington too seemed in a fair mood, taking his fill of wine beside him, and entertaining Rhaegar with tales about each lord he saw in the crowd.

“It’s too bad ol’ Stannis isn’t here,” he noted with a grin beside him. “You’d be able to hear him grind his teeth from the farthest corner of the room. One would think that smiling takes years off his life, with how little he did it.”

Rhaegar shook his head, smiling softly. “He is your liege lord, Jon. You oughtn't speak of him thus.”

Jon shrugged. “I serve you, not him.”

Rhaegar makes no comment to either encourage or discourage him. Jon’s loyalty was strong and true, and he doubted it would ever waver. Such was his He looks around the room instead, tuning out the beginning of Jon’s next story. He looks to the table of Cersei and other ladies to see Rhaenys still propped on the table, showing off her ruby necklace while grinning broadly. Meanwhile, Aegon was…

Where was Aegon?

His heart suddenly speeding up, he examined his surroundings more closely. There was no sign of a bobbing head of silver curls anywhere; not with the ladies, or by the guards, or with another family. He was missing from the hall entirely.

“Gerold!” Rhaegar calls the knight who stood a ways behind him. He obediently crosses to his side, and leans over to keep the conversation private.

“Your grace?”

“Where is Aegon? Where is my son?” He hissed, trying desperately to spot him among the crowds. It would do no good to send them all in a frenzy. He eyes the open doors leading out to the gardens, finding the two guards there leaning on the wall and and nursing pints of ale. Rhaegar gritted his teeth. “Did his septa take him back to his room?” He asks, hoping for the best.

Gerold sends a sharp command Ser Oswell’s way to find the septa, and another to Ser Arthur to alert the guards. The knights go about their tasks quickly, returning in a matter of minutes, though each moment felt like an excruciating hour. They report back to Ser Gerold, who nods gravely.

“There is no sign of him in the hall, your grace, nor is he in his nursery with his septas,” Gerold informs him. 

Rhaegar nods stiffly. “The gardens, then. He must be there; we cannot send too many men after him-- they’ll frighten him,” he manages to say. To say he was boiling with rage would be untrue. He was simmering, steam blowing out of him to keep from spilling over. “Ask Lady Cersei and those around her what happened to my son, if you will. I should like to know how he escaped their eye.” He left Aegon in their care, and they lost him. He should blame them-- yet he could only blame himself.

When Ser Gerold returns, he notes the frantic eyes of the ladies at the table, as well as Rhaenys’s own bewildered stare. “They say they were distracted by the princess’s presence, your grace.”

“Of course they were,” Rhaegar said flatly. They were trying to garner his favor through his daughter, whose speech and mind was far developed beyond her younger brother. Make an impression on her, they would make an impression on him-- and forget that he wished for someone to _care_ for his children, not simply indulge them.

“You can’t trust a woman to do a woman’s job, it seems,” Jon suddenly barked beside him. His face had turned as red as his hair, his rage similar to Rhaegar’s own, though more public. One would think it was his own son that he lost. “Damn their incompetence!”

“Send men to search the castle,” he commands of Ser Gerold, ignoring Jon’s outburst. His heart was beating damn near out of his chest; any words that would not facilitate his son’s swift return would be wasted. “Have Sers Oswell and Jonothor lead them. Sers Jaime and Lewyn shall stay in the hall; the rest of the kingsguard come with me to search the gardens.” Aegon would undoubtedly follow his voice if he called out, and he would trust Arthur, Gerold, and Barristan’s voices.

As he rises, Jon Connington grabs his arm to look at him wild-eyed. “Your grace, allow me to accompany you,” he offers, squaring his broad shoulders. He was a bit drunk it seemed, and teetered on his feet as he attempted to rise.

“Stay and keep the hall in calm,” Rhaegar commanded of him. “Should anyone ask, say there was a matter that needed swift attending to.” He noticed that the music suddenly ceased, as every eye in the hall looked at him expectantly, perhaps awaiting an announcement. “Carry on,” Rhaegar calls out, trying his best to seem still and amiable, hiding well his maddening worry. He smiles until the music returns, then swallows the growing lump in his throat.

To say he lost his only son and heir in a night of festivities would be an embarrassment; to be unable to recover him…

The thought was too much to bear.


	7. Lyanna IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna comes upon someone in the gardens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Writer's block has been killing me. Enjoy!

Lyanna was not sure if it was sign of her restless youth that she felt the need to find better entertainment than the party, or instead an indication that she was growing old. At only eight-and-ten years, she liked to believe it was the former.

Still, such an urge drove her, Benjen, and a bottle of wine into the gardens early on in the feast, the two siblings sharing each other's company and the drink rather warmly.

A cool breeze whispered through the royal gardens, sending goosepimples down their arms. Winter was quite late, though it seemed content to manifest itself in frigid winds like such. Winter was coming, of course. It always would.

The bottle returns to her hands by her younger brother, who casts her a lopsided grin. "Do you suppose Ned has noticed that we're gone yet?" He asks.

Lyanna shrugs. "Most likely. Though I'm sure he will do well without us; he has more southron friends than either of us do." She quicks a quick swig of wine, then passes it back to her brother.

"I guess that's true," Benjen replies thoughtfully. The pair are silent for some time, drinking in the still night in peace. Such emptiness seemed to have an affect on her, as unwelcome thoughts entered her head. One such thought was the sight of Rhaegar, looking so handsome and regal at the high table, and the hordes of women who greeted him there.

"You know, Lya, I've been thinking..." Her brother begins, his solemn features appearing stoic. "If you marry him and leave Winterfell--"

"Benjen," Lyanna groaned, despising the conversation already. "Do not pander in 'what if's. It shall not happen."

"Just _listen_ ," he demands of her, suddenly sounding irritated. "If you leave, I think I shall ask father to send me to the Wall.”

Lyanna stops in her tracks, staring at the back of her brother's head as he moved forward a little more before pausing and turning around.

"Why?" She asked simply, trying not to let any hurt seep into her voice. It was a noble pursuit, she had to remind herself. But the Wall was an ominous place regardless.

Benjen shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. "I don't know, it's just that..." He mumbles, looking down at the grass. "I don't want to marry some bannerman's daughter and live like a lord and get fat and lazy. I want something more than that; and since Ned is practically father's ambassador and he goes everywhere-- I thought I'd do something of my own too."

Lyanna nods, understanding the feeling. Her brother had a thirst for adventure similar to hers; the chief difference is that he was a man, and a man could find ways to fulfill that urge. "I would be there already if they accepted women," Lyanna admitted with a sigh, dejectedly accepting his decision. "But history doesn't need two Brave Danny Flints, hm?"

Benjen shivered at the mention of the inauspicious tale and shook his head. He looks over to her, grey eyes somber. "And well, you know, Winterfell was empty without you," he adds in a small voice that made him sound more like the boy she left for Storm's End years ago. "Yet even if you came back, I know I'll have to make something of myself eventually. King or no king, I'd have to leave one day."

Lyanna nods again. "I suppose that's true," she conceded, tilting her head back to look at the night sky. Bright white stars were splattered across the black canvas, glittering among the darkness. "Then I shall have to be the mad spinster alone in Winterfell."

Her brother chuckles as he raises the bottle to his lips. "You know you don't _have_ to be. You're choosing that."

Lyanna snorts. "And I suppose marrying the first man who'll take me is the better option?" She wrested the bottle from his hands. "No thank you."

He laughed, and they continued their solitary walk through the gardens. It was a gorgeous space, though no doubt greener in sunlight. The flowers wafted a pleasant smell through them, the breeze helping to carry it along.

A sudden rustling of the grass pulls her from her thoughts. She and Benjen pause at the same time, eyeing the corner of hedges before them carefully. She spotted out of the corner of her eye Benjen resting his palm on the pommel of the sword he carried. The rustling came closer and closer until something small crashed into Lyanna's legs and nearly sent her tumbling backwards.

"Whoa there!" She calls out pulling the figure away from her. Standing before her was a little boy with chubby limbs and a thick head of silver curls. He looked up at her with wide eyes that shined purple in the moonlight. "Well, what do we have here?" She kneeled down to meet the boy's level. For a fleeting moment it seemed as if he would cry; the expression passed, and in its place was bubbly giggling.

"That's the king's boy, isn't he? Aegon?" Benjen asked, sounding surprised. "What's he doing out here by himself?"

"It seems that our good king ought to invest in better guards," Lyanna notes drily, faintly recalling the two drunkards at the doors of the gardens. She smoothed back the boy's soft hair, picking leaves out of it as she did. Her hand then went to remove some smudged dirt from off his face, but was surprised to feel tears on his cheeks. "Poor thing; you're scared."

The boy shakes his head, curls bouncing as he did. "No! I'm brave, like papa," he insisted with a goofy grin.

Lyanna chuckled at his enthusiasm. "One can be both brave and scared, little prince. In fact, admitting you're scared is a brave thing to do."

He was a darling child, keeping that bright smile plastered on his face. Lyanna could not help but lift him into her arms and kiss his wet cheek.

"Well, little prince, my brother and I are scared of the gardens at night. Won't you protect us from the snarks and grumpkins that hide in the hedges?" 

The boy nods eagerly, giggling again. He clung to her with the innate trust that lived in most children, believing that the adults in their surroundings would care for them. Renly had been much the same as she recalled. Her heart hurt at the reminder of the little boy she left behind in Storm's End. Aegon only seemed to bring forth memories of him.

"We ought to take him back," Benjen noted beside her, sounding nervous. "They're probably looking for him."

"We are taking him back, stupid," Lyanna retorted, rolling her eyes. Aegon laughed at her choice of words, his snickers sweet and childish. Lyanna couldn't help but laugh too with how his nose wrinkled and how he rocked in her arms. "Don't you ever say that word to your sister!" She warned playfully. "Or she'll teach you a swift lesson, I promise you."

He laughed anyways, resting his arm on her shoulder for stability. As he finished up his round of giggles, the sound of approaching footsteps came to Lyanna's attention. Again, Benjen reached for his sword as both of them seemed to realize that this was much louder than the child's footsteps before. They came to a halt as a man came upon them, his white armor shining in the moonlight.

“Ser Arthur Dayne,” her brother uttered beside her, beating her to recognition. Indeed it was the legendary knight, his pale hair tied back from his ruggedly handsome face. His form was large and towering. On the back, his ancestral greatsword seemed to glow. _Dawn indeed,_ Lyanna muses. She would have loved to see it up close.

“Over here!” The knight called out to others in the garden. More Kingsguard knights join him; there was three by her count, and she quickly recognized them all: Sers Barristan, Gerold, and Oswell. If she peered over to look at her brother's face, she wouldn’t have been surprised to see his jaw on the ground.

"Good evening, sers," Lyanna greets them flatly, shifting Aegon on her hip. "Have you misplaced something?"

Before they could speak, someone else broke through their ranks. Tall and strong and every inch as handsome as she remembered him, Rhaegar came forward, looking much less regal than he did in the hall. He looked frazzled and frightened for a moment before relief washed over his features. 

"Thank the gods," he mumbled, shoulders slumping.

"Papa!" Aegon called out. Cheeky as ever, he waved to him from Lyanna's arms, not budging.

"I cannot believe you ran off like that," the king chides his son, stepping forward. "It's dark outside, Aegon!"

The boy's lip wobbled at the elevated voice, and Lyanna cleared her throat to step in. "It's hardly his fault, now is it? Where were the men, or the women, meant to watch him?" She knew she was being bold by challenging him, but she felt more partial to the lad than to his father. And it was ultimately his father who lost him.

Rhaegar looks to her as if he was seeing her there for the first time. He blinks, squares his shoulders, and straightens his back, trying to regain some sense of propriety. "Lady Lyanna, my apologies for troubling you with this. He escaped all our sights."

"The sights of four grown men and countless others?" Lyanna returns, feeling irritable. It was unclear if her ire was stemming from the situation at hand or past transgressions; still she spoke, and she spoke recklessly. "That's rather irresponsible, wouldn't you say?"

She was getting to him; she could tell by the way he stiffened and set his jaw ever so slightly. "My lady, we--"

"There's no excuse for losing a child," Lyanna snaps before he could finish.

"Lya," her brother mumbled anxiously beside her. She glanced over to him, raising a brow.

"What? Doesn't this bother you, brother?" She asked nonchalantly. She absentmindedly smoothed back Aegon's hair; the boy seemed glad to be in her arms, leaning in further to wrap his arms about her neck. "If I had allowed such a thing happen to Lord Renly when I was in Storm's End, I'd have been strung up for it." An exaggeration, seeing as Renly rarely found himself far from her side. It felt like an age ago now.

"You're right, my lady," Rhaegar said, sounding tense. When he reached for his son, the boy buried his face in Lyanna's shoulder. "I'll take him off your hands and keep him close by, if you will."

"Will you?" Lyanna asked, enjoying the bit of pressure she put on the men. Her hand ran absentmindedly through Aegon's hair until he looked up at her. "What say you, my prince? Should I return you to your father?"

The boy looked contemplative for a moment before breaking into a grin. "I like you," he said confidently.

Lyanna chuckles. "I like you too," she returns. She senses the mood grow just a little more tense. "But I suppose I can't keep you forever, can I? Be a good boy and go to your father."

He obeys without protest, reaching out his arms to his father, who scoops him up effortlessly. The king presses a long kiss to his temple, then rubs his back affectionately.

"He was frightened I think," Lyanna informs him in a quiet voice, noting the father's fondness for his son. "I found him with tears upon his cheeks, though he came to me in good cheer."

Rhaegar nods, looking relieved again. "Thank you, my lady. I..." He paused, looking away from her before locking eyes again. "I should like to properly give you both my gratitude. Would you accept a summons from me tomorrow?"

Lyanna blinked, looking over to Benjen for a moment to see his wide-eyed expression. Her mouth felt dry all of a sudden; she licks her lips to alleviate it. "That's not necessary, your grace. It was nothing, truly," she said, wanting very much _not_ to share a room with the king, even if her brother was there. That was too dangerous.

"I insist," Rhaegar returns quickly. "I would not let this go without reward. Please, my lady."

Lyanna glances around at the Kingsguard standing stoically a ways behind their king. They stood as if ready to jump at the command. She hides a grimace, knowing very well that a refusal by this point would earn her the ire of far too many people.

“Very well,” Lyanna says, her voice falling rather flat. It took all she had not to sigh. "My brother and I will graciously accept your gratitude." She smiled privately at her throwing Benjen into the lot.

“Thank you. Aegon, you thank her as well.”

The boy turned in his father’s arms to grin at her. “Thank you,” he repeated in his sweet childish voice.

“You’re welcome, little prince. Don’t get into anymore trouble now, alright?” He nods in agreement, turning in his place to wave goodbye as his father turned to leave.

Ser Arthur does not go, but instead lingers, stepping to the two of them. Lyanna knew that he was more knowledgeable regarding the past the she and the king shared; was he planning to warn her off? Encourage her? Share his disgust? Lyanna braces herself for all of this.

"May I escort the both of you back to the hall?" He asked politely, relieving some of the building tension in Lyanna's body.

"W-We're fine, ser," Benjen responds, still appearing to be quite anxious. Lyanna nods.

"Good evening to the two of you, then," Arthur said. As he turned to leave his eyes remained on Lyanna for only a second; but that was enough. Lyanna grimaced and looked away, crossing her arms over her chest.

_He has no right to judge me._

Alone again, her brother exhales a long restrained sigh, falling onto a nearby bench. There were beads of sweat on his otherwise unlined forehead. “Lya!” He exclaimed in a half-groan. “You can’t do that!”

Lyanna pins him with a glare. “Can’t do _what_?”

“Speak to the king like that! With all of those knights… Oh gods…” He huffed, then pulled at the collar of his shirt, shaking his head. “They could have thrown you into the dungeons… Or something!”

Lyanna rolls her eyes. Was that truly his chief concern? Benjen knew of the correspondence that the king and her carried out years back, yet somehow it didn’t occur to him that she still still felt as if she were allowed to speak freely before him?

“Even a king deserves to be scolded when he behaves like an idiot.” She looks around, searching for the bottle of wine. “You need a drink. Where is it?”

Benjen glances around too, fumbling around in the dark for it. He then sits up and sighs. “I think I dropped it when the prince came upon us…” 

Lyanna groaned. “Ben!” She pulled at his sleeve, urging him to get up. “Let’s go back to the dining hall, then. I’m parched.”

He gets up, but shoots her a warning glance. “I’m not going with you to see the king tomorrow,” he announced firmly. “I refuse to stand by again as you insult the king. Consider it a punishment for putting me through that embarrassment.”

She lets out a gasp and shoves her brother’s shoulder. “He is summoning the both of us! You can’t refuse a royal summons!” How could he abandon her like that? Truly, she hadn’t said anything that no one else was thinking. To let your son unattended like that… It deserved reprimanding.

Her brother rolled his eyes. “I think the king will be glad I didn’t attend. We both know he wants to speak to you, not me.”

“That’s…” Lyanna takes pause. Of course; it made sense, after all, his insisting on repaying the favor. With anyone else he might have showered them with thanks and let being in the king’s debt be their reward. With her…

The thought is infuriating. Did he truly want to reclaim the past so sorely? Why could they both end their contact with one another, let bygones be bygones?

“I saw the way he looked at you. Everyone saw it,” Benjen continues. “Not that he was being… lecherous, he was just… I don’t know…”

Lyanna licks her dry lips, then shakes her head. “Now I need a drink.” She knew she could still try begging her brother to come along, and eventually he might relent. But perhaps she needed this, to clear the air with Rhaegar once and for all. Let the two of them explain themselves in person, for once, and to be unhindered in their speech. Then perhaps Lyanna can leave King’s Landing with a clear head, and the king can have a bride worth having.


	8. Rhaegar IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar meets with Lyanna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on... well, all my works. There are stressors in my life right now that I'm grappling with, and as such put a strain on my writing for some time. Hopefully I'll be more regular in these updates from now on!

He had sent out her summons no more than a breath ago, yet already Rhaegar found himself fretting. Mostly, he wondered if Lyanna would respond; the night before she seemed hesitant to agree to a meeting, with cause that Rhaegar had yet to see. It was she who had turned her back on him; _he_ had waited at the Isle of Faces as planned. A part of him now feared that she would rebuff his meeting today as she had that meeting years ago; he would never forgive her if she did.

There is commotion outside of his door that makes him hopeful. He rises, standing behind his desk with his back straight and shoulders squared. When the doors fly open, he has his courtesies standing by on the tip of his tongue, but they are spirited away once he sees who has arrived.

"Lady Cersei?" He inquired quizzically; he did not send for her, not at all. Yet there she was, elegantly dressed, hair coiffed, and with tears swimming in her green eyes. “Forgive me, my lady, but I am expecting--”

“Your grace!” She cried out, crossing the room in time to evade Ser Jonothor’s grasp. The knight shot him an apologetic look; Rhaegar waves him off, urging him to close the door. Cersei in the meantime had thrown herself at him, hands grasping the front of his doublet as she looked up at him forlornly. “Oh, your grace, I am so _ashamed_ ,” she lamented, blinking away her tears. Her breasts were pressed against him full and distracting, but they did not retract from his confusion. “I swore to you I would watch your children for the night, and I let Aegon out of my sight. It was only for a moment, I swear to you, and suddenly he was gone!”

“A moment is all it takes,” he replied, clearing his throat as he grasped her shoulders to draw her away from him. She is determined, however, and only clings to him with a stronger grip.

"I know that now, your grace, which is why I beg you for your forgiveness," she pleaded, lower lip trembling prettily. "I shall never let such a thing come to pass by your children again, I swear it."

Rhaegar shook his head, offering a tight smile. "You need not beg my forgiveness, my lady. It was my fault; I should not have placed such a responsibility on your shoulders when the hall was as busy as it was. You ought to have been enjoying yourself, not looking after my children." Rhaegar hoped this would be the end of the matter so she may be on her way before Lyanna arrived; but the Lannister woman was incessant.

"Oh, but I do so like looking after your children. I have been awake all night in fear that you would take from me the privilege of their company." She seemed sincere in her sentiments, though Rhaegar had trouble finding even a hair out of place to corroborate her story. "Please, I shall never be so reckless again--"

"Lady Cersei, you needn't make no pledges to me," he returns, eager to put this behind him. "My children are yours to spend time with as you please, though you are certainly under no obligation to do so." When he draws her away from him, it is easier this time, though her eyes were still watery and wide.

"Thank you, my king, you are too generous," she sighs. She pulls his hands off her shoulders to grasp them and press a light kiss to his knuckles. "You must understand that it brings me such pleasure to serve you..." She pauses, biting a pink lip before continuing. "And your beautiful children."

"Yes, well..." Rhaegar half-mumbles, drawing his hands away from her grasp. "So long as you are pleased, as am I, my lady." The lie seems to brighten her mood. She smiles as a faint blush colors her fair cheeks. It was difficult to deny that she did not make a lovely sight; yet in her eagerness, Rhaegar found much discomfort.

"With my king pleased by me, I shall take my leave," she announced, nodding her golden head. Rhaegar leads her to the door, opening it for her. The woman gives him another lusty glance before looking forward, and finding something that seemed to disagree with her.

Rhaegar peers outside to see Lyanna, standing by with her hands clasped before her. The grey-eyed woman glances between them before offering a small smile.

"Lady Cersei. Your grace," she greets, offering Cersei a nod and Rhaegar a curtsey.

"Lady Lyanna," Cersei returned, sickly sweet. "How good to see you."

"Likewise."

Cersei takes more time to make an exit, flicking her skirts away from Lyanna and tilting her nose skyward. As he looks to Lyanna, who seemed thoroughly unamused, Rhaegar's mouth suddenly felt terribly dry. He licks his lips, then extends a hand.

"Please come inside, my lady," he offers in a level tone. She glances at his outstretched hand, then moves past him and into his solar. She lowers herself into a chair, her back to him and her gaze set before her.

Once the door was shut, she takes her chance to speak. "It is rather impolite to invite someone on a summons and then keep them waiting, your grace," she said, voice cold.

As he rounds the desk to face her, Rhaegar finds himself fumbling for an excuse. "I did not summon her, my lady. She came of her own volition."

"I did not know you two were so well acquainted then that she is given leave to enter your solar with no summons," she returns, quick as a whip. Her icy glare bore into him, yielding more emotion than she perhaps intended to give.

Because of that, Rhaegar chuckled involuntarily. "My lady, I daresay a lesser man may accuse you of petty jealousy." He smiles as he delivers this, but Lyanna Stark finds no jest in his words.

"'Tis not jealousy so much as distaste at being of so little importance to you that you should make me wait while you entertain the fancies of another woman," she snaps, rising as if to leave. Her eyes blazed with contempt, and her rage had grown so quickly that already her hands were balled into fists. "After all, I was not the one who desired this meeting; as I recall, _you_ had insisted."

Rhaegar extends a hand to calm her, motioning for her to sit again. He knew her fire would not be so easily quelled, but she did at the very least unclenched her fists. "You are right," he offers softly, hiding his amusement. "That was unchivalrous of me. I beg your forgiveness, Lady Lyanna."

Even at his attempts of peace, she scoffs at him. "You 'beg my forgiveness'? Are you mocking me?"

"No, I am being sincere," he quips, wanting rather badly to reach out and smooth that furrow between her brows. Her anger was charming in its own way, but he would have her in a fairer mood.

She huffs and crosses her arms, eyeing him warily as she lowered herself into the seat again. Rhaegar remains rising so as to pour the two of them a cup of honeyed wine. She accepts the drink still unsmiling.

"Where is your brother?" He asks, taking a small sip before seating himself.

"Too shy to come with me, yet smart enough to know that you wanted to speak to me alone," she returned, meeting his eye briefly before looking away. "He knows of... Our past correspondence."

“Does he?” Rhaegar inquired with raised brows. “Does he also know why you did not meet me at the Isle of Faces? For I should like to know.” It was perhaps not the most tactful way to breach the subject, but the issue was a thorn in his side. She eyes him warily, those two chips of ice scratching at his skin.

“He does,” she answers icily. “As you should too.”

“How is that? I received nothing but a note.”

“You were asking a girl of fifteen to put her complete trust in you,” she snipes. “Forgive her for doubting the sincerity of your words.”

 _You were right to doubt,_ he almost said, yet he was still too faithful to his dreams to admit it. "But don't you wonder how it might have been?" He had thought of it, of Lyanna in the top room of the Tower of Joy, where they would share a bed and more. Their babe would have grown in her belly and he would have the daughter he desired; and she…

“I wondered every day when I was married to Robert,” she murmured, a finger tracing the rim of the goblet. “I wondered at what sort of freedom you had offered me; all those beautiful promises of adventure, of living untethered, of being free to choose and live as I wanted. I..."

Rhaegar wished he could say that his stomach turned as she recited back the lies he had told her. They were little lies, just enough to lure her into his presence; her letters implied she was half-smitten with him. He only wished to secure the other half. In the end, lies were a small price to pay for what he would do. The prophecy would be fulfilled, the world saved, and the Long Night to be staved off forever.

"I suppose it was foolish to think of it," she said, setting her goblet down. "And it was foolish of me to believe that you had wanted nothing in return. I know men better now; a man's good deeds always came with a price."

Rhaegar swallows a sigh, and turns his face to the window. The tree outside brushed against the metal bars, making a soft rustling noise. Cheerful noises could be heard wafting up from the gardens below; if he concentrated, he may even hear the giggles of one of his children.

"You are right," Rhaegar tells her, seeing no reason to hide behind façade now. She was free of any bonds, she was older and smarter, and so was he. They could speak honestly to each other now. "I wanted you."

She is silent for some time, but he does not turn to look at her. "I thought as much," she finally said. "Perhaps that is what scared me the most." She sighed, and that wills him to look at her. Her grey eyes bore into him unapologetically. "As we were on the way to Brandon's wedding, we stopped at the Crossroads Inn, meaning to spend the night. The next morning I was to go out to the Isle of Faces with some of the others-- as a pilgrimage of sorts. I was plagued by restlessness, however, and woke in the middle of the night. I found the kitchens in hopes of getting some bread, and in it I found a kitchen girl."

Her hands twisted into the fabric of her dress. "She had a babe at her breast; she rose to greet me and asked what I desired. I asked for bread, and offered to hold her babe for her as she fetched it. It was a girl; a lovely little girl with Brandon's hair and his dark grey eyes. I knew it was his; gods, I could feel it in my bones. A Stark could always recognize a Stark." She paused to look away and lick her lips; Rhaegar waited patiently for a conclusion. "I looked at the child and I thought: she could be mine. I looked back at her mother, a woman who was not much older than me, and I thought: I could be her. I took it as a sign. The next morning, I told my companions I would not go to the Isle, but with them I sent along the note, and asked them to place it beneath a heart tree as an offering. That is what you received, and I-- I slept soundly the next night."

The tale, while believable, was disappointing. _I lost her to a bastard,_ he thought sullenly. Had he not been so sure that only she would give him his third child, he might have sent her away by now. He needed a Visenya still. He needed a girl as bold and brave and martial as she. But what would he offer her?

He takes this time in silence to examine her; she was more astute now than she was those years before. Honeyed words would not sway her as they did before; but perhaps they were not necessary.

“You know why I held this tourney, I’m sure,” he said, drawing her gaze back to him. The glint of defiance in her eyes answered his inquiry. “Tell me, would you consider a second chance with me?”

“Why should I consider such a thing?” She returned calmly. “You know that marriage was never something I aspired to. I’m a free woman now, just as I had wanted to be.”

“A free woman, and soon a lonely one,” he reminded her. Her reaction comes in the form of a crinkled nose. “Think of what I could give you, Lyanna. Think of the power you would gain in your office, of a companion in your life, of an opportunity to form your own legacy. For soon enough, even your youngest brother shall find his way in life whilst you remain in a home that will fill with children that are not yours.” She moves to set her goblet down on his desk, and he takes the opportunity to seize that slim hand between his fingers. “You would have my heart, Lyanna, in this hand. And with the other, you would hold a kingdom.”

“You assume that just because I am alone, that I am lonely?” She returned in a small voice. There was protest in her tone, but not in her eyes. Some of his words rang true. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps there is no place for me in Winterfell, that I shall be little more than an old maid tending to her many nieces and nephews. But I find joy, and comfort, in my family. I am never alone, with them, not truly.”

“When you find yourself at the end of your years, what could you say you have accomplished?” He returned in a kind voice, though the words visibly pained her. “Ruling can ensnare, that I know. But I have known you; I know you want to be more than a man’s wife. By my side, you shall be queen, and within that faculty is a wellspring of power. You better yourself through it; you better your family through it. I beg of you, Lyanna, at least think on it.”

She pulls her hand away slowly, somber eyes fallen to her lap. “Another marriage of convenience, then.” Her voice was coarse with the hardships of years past. “Another arrangement that I cannot escape, and must suffer if it comes to suffering.”

“I would make you happy. The happiest.”

A ghost of a grimace reaches her lips. She rises from her seat, and Rhaegar does the same, eyeing her carefully to try and determine if he’d done wrong somewhere, said something harmful.

“Tell me, your grace, do you give me an option or an order?” She asked, voice and gaze sharper than before.

“An option. Always,” he answered. Her jaw sets in irritation anyways.

“Then I say no,” she said curtly. “Good day to you, your grace.”

By the time he opened his mouth to speak, she had already turned on heel and left him. He rubs the fingers that touched hers to his palm, staring after the door in silence. Rejection was a strange experience for him, to be sure. He paces the room once, twice, before stopping in his tracks.

 _A second time I must court you, then,_ he thinks, resolute. _Only this time I shall succeed._

He walks behind his desk, finding a new leaf of paper. The quill in his hand is dipped in ink before it is put to the paper. In quick, slanted scrawl, he writes:

_Prepare my tourney armor. Buy flowers-- roses, blue. Tulips, red. Small daisies. Have a bouquet sent to the Lady Lyanna. Save a bundle enough for a crown. You needn’t be discreet._

He emerges from the room with the ink still not fully dry. “Where is my squire?” He asked of the knights at his door. Before one could speak, he adds. “Find him. Deliver him this.” He passes the paper to Jonothor’s hand, who looks at him in bewilderment. “Quickly,” Rhaegar adds before disappearing back inside.


	9. Lyanna V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna attends the joust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

"The gall of men!" Lyanna huffed at her brothers between bites of pheasant. "To believe that a few sweet words and tender promises is enough to send a woman in your beds is such foolish arrogance! Pray tell, what inspires you lot to have such a damnable lack of respect for women?"

Her brothers looked to each other briefly, unsure of how to respond. They were entirely the wrong sort of men to demand these answers from; as far as Lyanna knew, the both of them were utterly clueless as far as women went.

"You don't have to accept anything from him, Lya," Ned returned cautiously.

"And I won't!" She exclaimed before taking another bite. The memory of her meeting with the king weighed heavily on her mind; they had said so much, shared too much, and it left Lyanna reeling. "Yet the fool did bring up a good point," she grumbled, setting her fork down. "It would only do good for our house to have a Stark on the throne." When she looked up from her plate, she found her brothers peered at her as if she has grown horns on her head. "What? Was he wrong in saying so?"

"N-No, not at all," Ned answered, still looking shocked. "Of course it would be good. It would increase father's contacts with the south, honor our name, and for the first time in history there will be a union between Houses Stark and Targaryen. It’s would be a rather fortunate match.” Upon seeing her scowl, Ned quickly added, “As we said, it's your choice."

"I hate politics," she mumbled, moving her food around her plate. What she hated more was how easily her mind navigated said politics. Lyanna knew all too well the hold a woman could have on a man; if she married Rhaegar, made him devoted to her, House Stark could have more power than her father would know what to do with. Her children may never sit the throne, but they would be princes and princesses who would want for nothing. In return, Lyanna would allow him the rights every husband exercised over his wife; and it is perhaps there where she struggled.

The man was unlike Robert, to be sure. Yet he had admitted to wanting her, undoubtedly in the same fashion Robert had wanted her. Robert’s wantings had always left her empty and raw. What would Rhaegar’s wantings do to her?

Lyanna shook her head to be rid of the thought. To imagine the marriage bed now would only turn her stomach and ruin the supper she shared now with her brothers. His offer had been rejected, and after this pompous event she would go home to Winterfell. She promised Catelyn she’d come back in time for her birth, and that was a promise she intended to keep. After that, Lyanna would surely find ways to fill her days, won’t she?

 _Benjen is leaving,_ she reminded herself. _Ned will have his travels, Brandon shall be Brandon, and Catelyn will be tied up with the children to come. And I will..._ She paused as she struggled to remember what she had been doing this past year. She’d done plenty of riding, fooled around with Benjen, kept Catelyn company, done all she could to keep from being bored. Soon enough she’ll be chasing after nieces and nephews, riding alone, and writing to Benjen to beg him to visit. Rhaegar was right in this too; the life she would lead in Winterfell would not be an exciting one.

 _But it shall be the life I chose,_ Lyanna asserted to herself. _Just as a life with him would be a choice,_ another voice added.

Oh, why must everything be so damnably difficult?  
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At least there was the tourney to look forward to. Admittedly, it was difficult to shake off her learned wariness of tourneys after her first at Harrenhal, but the years and her reexploration of all things old and once abandoned were enough to fuel some form of excitement for this tourney. Her late husband had been fond of tourneys, but was far too lazy to put forth any effort toward one. In any case, the melee was the only event he particularly cared for. Yet if he wanted a melee, he said, he’ll gather up his men and he’ll have one in the training yard. The joust part of tourneys seemed to be his least favorite event. This was not too surprising, seeing as he regarded lances as unwieldy and boring.

Lyanna knew it was neither; she’d unhorsed three men just fine, herself. Still, she never bothered to correct him.

Today she dressed in a white, flowy gown whose dagged sleeves opened at the elbows. It was a largely unadorned gown, save for the slashes of black leather that cinched her waist. White was a color she wore only if she knew there was no chance of it getting dirty; a habit that held the opposite connotation when she was a little girl.

It seemed at least Ned saw something of a little girl in her as he eyed her white gown warily, his gaze falling meaningfully to the hem of it. Both her brothers cut fine, dark figures in their black leather and grey linen.

“We look like a walking banner,” Lyanna teased as she took Ned’s arm. “Where are our men to follow us into battle?”

Ned only rolled his eyes, but it kept his gaze away from her clean dress.

Benjen, on the other hand, seemed less concerned with her and more with some spot off in the distance. Lyanna poked his side. “What is it?” She asked, furrowing her brows in worry.

“Should I join the lists?” He burst out, frowning. “They could probably fit me in last minute if I asked-- right?”

Lyanna was not as surprised by this confession than she was amused. Benjen had always harbored a love of tourneys and showmanship. He had been proper miffed when Lyanna had insisted on playing the part of mystery knight at Harrenhal those years back; but Benjen was but a boy then. Now he was closer to a man grown.

"I say you could if you wished," Lyanna answered with a smile that felt sadder than she meant it to be. _This may be your last tourney after all, little brother._

“Ben, there will be men twice your age competing,” Ned returned with his worrywart frown. 

“I’m a man grown,” Benjen snapped back. “Barristan the Bold was ten years old when he first competed, and I’ve got five years on him.”

“Let him, Ned,” Lyanna said to her fretting older brother. “It’s not unusual for boys--”

“ _Men_ ,” Benjen corrected.

“--men his age to be competing.”

Ned seems to consider this for a moment before he asks, “Did you bring a suit of tourney armor?”

Benjen nods. “I’ve thought about this, you know. I wanted to do something big before--” He stops himself suddenly, and gives Lyanna a sheepish look.

 _He didn’t tell Ned,_ Lyanna realized. _Ned doesn’t know he wants to join the Night’s Watch._

“Before what?” Ned asked.

“Before… Before my next nameday,” Benjen said quickly, smiling crookedly. “Six-and-ten is um, a significant age, after all.”

Ned eyed him cautiously for another moment before letting loose a sigh and a shrug. “You’d best go fetch it now, then. You don’t want to be late in signing up for the lists.”

Lyanna giggles as her excited younger brother takes off to his chambers to fetch his armor. She and Ned get a headstart on him and make their way to the tourney grounds instead, finding their allotted place in the stands among the men they brought south with them. The two looked first toward the lists to see how many sigils they could recognize.

Though sigils were still being added and pulled, some stayed in place: the falling star of House Dayne, the skull and kisses of House Lonmouth, the wheat stalks of House Selmy, the lion of House Lannister, the white and red of House Rosby, along with others that Lyanna did not recognize. Still, by the sights of it, at least three knights of the Kingsguard would be participating, a fact that made Lyanna a little anxious for her younger brother.

The sigil of House Stark soon joined the lists, placed at the bottom beside a squire’s sigil. Easy pickings, even for Benjen, as he seemed to be chosen because he was of an age with him. Then, a new coat of arms was placed at the bottom, beside that of Barristan Selmy’s: a red, three-headed dragon on black. Lyanna gasped and tugged to Ned’s arm to bring his attention to it. Murmurs rose up from the stands not long after, as more began to take notice.

“Is he mad?” Ned mumbled to her, frowning. “Who would ride against the king?”

“What sort of pig-headed fool joins the very tourney he hosts?” Lyanna added hotly, her frustration only growing when he saw Benjen's nervous glance toward the lists. 

"The sort who hopes to win, I suppose."

"Does he aim to collect the purse he offered for the winner as well?" Another look to the lists showed that Rhaegar and Benjen need only win two rounds before they faced each other. While Rhaegar was the more seasoned jouster by far, it still meant Benjen would have to make the choice between raising his lance or letting himself be bested. When it had been Brandon against Rhaegar, the latter was only a prince, and Brandon would have raised his lance against him even if he were a god himself. But Benjen was more sensible, and less practiced.

Rhaegar steps onto the stadium grounds atop a stark white stallion, bringing a hush to the crowd. He looked resplendent in his tourney armor, a variation of the suit he wore years ago at Harrenhal. It was black as obsidian and shone like the polished jewel, with rubies glittering along the edges of each piece of armor. Atop his head was a glimmering black helm, with two dragon wings breaking forth from the sides. When he pulled it off, he shook loose his fine silver curls, and looked out to the crowd in silent intensity.

The tension in the air was nearly palpable. For most, this tension was one of fierce anticipation; for Lyanna, it was all that kept her from marching over to Rhaegar's side to claw his pretty eyes out.

"Here we have our competitors," he calls out coolly, extending his arm in the direction of the men lined up. "To the victor goes the spoils; the crown of love and beauty as well as the purse." Both were brought forth upon velvet pillows: a bag full of 50 golden dragons, and a crown of pink and blue roses. "Unless the victor should the be I, the purse shall go to him who faces me last. The crown of love and beauty, however, shall be mine to bestow." At those words his gaze falls squarely upon Lyanna, just for a moment.

Lyanna takes in a breath that sounds much like a hiss. "The gallant oaf!" She cursed beneath her breath. "If he means to crown me..." 

_No, not again,_ Lyanna insisted internally. _That old trick worked once, but it shall not work twice._

Oh, that would be just the sort of talk to send her quickly home. Titters of how the prince was so fond of her, he crowned her twice with flowers and aimed to crown her again with gold. Lyanna had her fill of public courtships and malcontent whispers carried out before courtiers. Even without a wife of his own to humiliate, Lyanna would not have it; _especially_ when one considered the ease with which he’d win.

_Oh, no, I shall not be so cheaply wooed-- nor so easily._

Through her veil of frustration Lyanna found herself hardly enjoying the tourney. Amidst her raging thoughts she could hear the sound of wood splintering against armor, of horses galloping and whinnying, and of men tumbling off their horses. Her attention was only held for the length of Benjen’s joust, and Rhaegar’s. Her brother did well, winning against the Redwyne squire after three lances, and Lyanna at the very least remember to cheer for him-- albeit through gritted teeth.

Rhaegar’s performance she watched simply out of spite, and in hopes he’d catch her eye and witness her malcontent. He won against Barristan Selmy after ten lances; whether this was an elaborate ploy to falsify authenticity or a true match of skill, Lyanna could not say for certain, though her heart leaned maliciously toward the former. Even so, Rhaegar did not look her way.

_Coy bastard. Enjoy this victory while you can, you…_

The jousts for the day ended as every match in the bottom tier played out. Among those who would proceed were Ser Arthur, Ser Jaime, Benjen, Ser Lonmouth… and naturally, Rhaegar, whose opponent for the next day was Jason Mallister.

In her rage and relief at the completion of the day’s joust, Lyanna rose first amongst those in the stands, icy glare directed to a certain man in black armor.

“Excuse me, sweet brothers,” she announced, giving Benjen a squeeze on the shoulder by way of belated congratulations. “I must seek an audience with the court fool before I shall join you for supper.”

Ned’s hand wrapped around her elbow and jerked her back. “By the gods, Lya, do you seek to insult the king with that sharp tongue?”

“No, I fear my tongue shall give him too much pleasure. ‘Tis my teeth I wish for him to feel.” She pulled her arm away and did not glance back as she took long strides to leave the stands.


	10. Rhaegar V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar enters the joust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone berates me, I know how long it's been. Writer's block melted into the beginning of a new semester that has taken over my life completely. I'm trying to make some time for writing now, for both my most recent stories and the older ones that fell to the wayside. No guarantees on quick updates but I am trying! I swear, I haven't forgotten you all!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy this chapter!

Having not taken up the lance for so long, Rhaegar found his blood thrumming beneath his skin. He'd nearly forgotten the sport in it, in the rush before a lance broke on a man's shoulder and splinters fell clinking upon on his armor. He was still as skilled at it as he was before, especially when put to purpose. He'd asked for his knights to put up an honest match, so the victory would be well-earned; the ten lances he broke upon Ser Barristan proved their steadfastness in this.

Tomorrow he'd be faced with Lord Jason Mallister-- whether he would put forth true effort against his king, Rhaegar could not be sure. Yet he held great certainty that his last match would be against another of his knights: Ser Arthur, or perhaps Ser Jaime. He'd caught glimpse of the youngest Stark, Benjen, in the lists, but the boy would surely be felled before the final round.

Rhaegar rode his horse to the entrance of the Red Keep, a dutiful squire seeing to the stallion while another trailed him as he went indoors. He stood tall in light of his arduous match, and aimed to thank Ser Barristan for the challenge later. For now, he desired only to bathe and later sup with his children. Perhaps he'll accompany them to the acrobatic show to be held later that night. Rhaenys did so love such artistry, and Aegon was easily excited. Even a cartwheel from a jester would send the boy squealing with joy.

In his chambers, Rhaegar was stripped of his tourney armor by his squire, a newly acquired lad from House Estermont. The boy was quick with his hands and eager to learn. When he'd finished removing the armor, he even fitted it upon the mannequin before he asked if anything more was required of him.

"Call upon a servant to have a bath drawn," Rhaegar said. "Hot water, and within the hour."

The lad nods before setting about after his task. Rhaegar lowered himself into a nearby chair, exhaling his exertion. His clothes stuck to him with sweat, having baked himself in his armor for nigh on two hours between waiting for his match, performing, and waiting out the last of the matches afterward. Yet a king had to maintain appearances; the cost in the end was a much needed bath.

He watched his chambermaids walk back and forth with basins of freshly heated water for some time as he relaxed and pondered other things. Tonight there would be no communal feast, but there would be one for the conclusion of the tourney tomorrow night, as well as another at the last day of this event, the ball to end this grandiose affair. By then his advisors would have wished him to select a woman among the many presented to him to betroth and later marry. Of course, there was a woman in mind; yet her willingness in the matter was yet to be ascertained.

Contemplating the frustrating paradox that was Lyanna Stark filled the next half-hour of his bath being prepared. A comely chambermaid curtsies to him and announces that his bath was ready. Rhaegar nods, waving her off before he pulled his shirt over his head. Upon draping it on his chair, he turns to the door to see the chambermaid avert her gaze and quickly scurry through the door. For the moments that the door was ajar, sounds of argument made its way to his ears. Still disrobed, he goes to the and opens it, looking out to his antechambers.

Across the room, Ser Oswell stood in the doorway, his large, armored form covering the body of the one he spoke with.

“My lady, you shall have to wait,” Rhaegar hears him say. “His grace is not to be disturbed at the moment."

“So he may summon me whenever he desires, yet I must wait upon him?" A woman's voice returned; a voice he knew.

"He is the king," Oswell returns flatly. Rhaegar winces for him.

"Well! Then tell our good _king_ that if I do not see him now, I shall never see him again."

He could hear Oswell grumble from where he stood. The knight turns around to face him, bringing Lyanna into view. "What say you, your grace?" He asked gruffly.

Lyanna seemed properly surprised, though still miffed. What might have been some charming color to her cheeks was surely a blush, and she averted her eyes away like a shy maid. Rhaegar hid a smile at that.

“I shall see her,” Rhaegar said, not failing to notice how she kept her gaze locked forward as she marched through the doors of his bedchambers. An unexpected gesture, considering that he had anticipated conversation in the antechambers. If talk came out that the Lady Lyanna Stark was found entering his rooms…

He supposed she didn’t quite care about her reputation, and for her sake he brushed away the thought. Yet despite her carelessness, her modesty was still much intact, as she kept her eyes away from his bared chest.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your bath," she mumbled, partially abashed.

"I’ve yet to enter the bath," he said, taking some pleasure from her discomfort. "What have you come to tell me?"

When it seemed clear that he had no intention of redressing, Lyanna slowly turned her gaze to his face, her eyes intensely focusing on his. "If you mean to win your own tourney and crown me the queen of love and beauty, I swear to you I shall throw those flowers back in your face.”

 _Therein lies her rage._ He had almost expected such a reaction, but not so soon. “That is not what you did the first time,” he said.

“It is what I _should_ have done the first time,” she returned, quick as a whip. “That first time you told me that you gave me laurels for my bravery, not a crown. I have done nothing to earn laurels now, and I’m not a girl anymore to have my affections bought with flowers.”

“That is true,” Rhaegar said with a shrug. “If this is what you would have from me, very well. I shall not give them to you.”

Her mouth parts as if to protest further, but she falls silent as his words register with her. She blinks once, confused. “Then you shall withdraw from the joust?”

“Not at all, my lady. I aim to see all my tilts through. In the event that I win, however, it is not you I’ll crown.”

That seems to baffle her further. Her eyes narrow and her brows furrow, her freckled face a charming picture of confusion. “Then who shall you crown?” She asked, with more interest than she perhaps had meant to reveal.

“There are many other women, my lady. I know of one who endlessly vies for my attention.” Her cheeks color as her mind surely wandered to thoughts of Cersei Lannister. _So she is jealous,_ he notes with satisfaction. “Perhaps I shall give it to her, and leave her with fond memories of the day.” When Lyanna says nothing in reply, he adds, “Unless, of course, you’d rather it be you.”

“No! What do I want with that stupid crown?” She fired back, crossing her arms over her chest and looking away. “It brought me nothing but trouble then, and it shall do the same now.”

Her frustration was worth a chuckle, but this one too he kept in. “Or, of course, we may reach a compromise.” He takes a single step forward, enough to pull her attention again. “For a kiss, I will withdraw from the joust altogether.”

It seems that it had been quite some time that she had experienced romance, and she gasped straightaway. “A-Absolutely not,” she returned, spending not a single moment in contemplation. “What sort of woman do you take me for?”

“The sort who is not fond of flowers and kisses, it seems,” he said with a small smile. _A different woman than the girl I recalled._ “If you will not accept, then our talk ends here. I’ve a bath to get to.”

She eyes him a little longer, her irritated gaze wrinkling her freckled nose. Her eyes stood as chips of ice, cutting into him, but to no harm.

"Very well then," she huffs suddenly, lifting her chin in defiance. "You do what you like. It is no concern of mine." She pushes past him and out his door, her swift movements giving away just how miffed she was.

 _You made your choice. Now I make mine._  
.  
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Jason Mallister fell off his horse with a thud and the clanking of armor. He dared as far as three tilts before he was unhorsed, to which the crowd celebrated with lusty cheers. This was a believable win, for Rhaegar had bested the man before at a tourney at Storm’s End. Both men’s forms had improved, and Rhaegar again proved himself the better.

Others too advanced, which naturally meant that others fell. Ser Jaime seemed to have entered this joust with firm intentions to win; something he proved first as he mercilessly sent the youngest Stark toppling off his horse, and again as he laughed when he unhorsed Richard Lonmouth afterward. Benjen Stark took the defeat with good grace, going as far as to go to Jaime and congratulate him, and to thank him for the honor. The young knight proved himself forever brash, returning the compliments with a sardonic smile.

Ser Jaime and Ser Arthur broke seven lances upon each other before the former proved himself, to be far more skilled than anyone had known. And indeed, it was Ser Jaime who would be Rhaegar’s foe in the final joust.

Once Rhaegar had settled back upon his horse, he pulled down the visor of his helm. Through the slats, he eyed Ser Jaime preparing himself. Evidence of his easy nature showed itself through the lazy roll of his shoulders, the smirk upon his unblemished face, how he refused the helmet his squire handed him. Arrogance and skill existed in young Jaime in equal measure. However, only one would earn him a victory.

Once the two were prepared, the announced emerges to signal the start of the match. Rhaegar raises his lance in preparation. Jaime does the same.

“Begin!”

Rhaegar digs his spurs into his stallion’s side, lowering his lance as the beast went into a gallop. The knight became closer and closer until--

_Crack!_

The impact nearly spins Rhaegar off his saddle. The lance did not wound him, but it had splintered loudly upon his armor. The nervous murmurs of the crowd rose. He thinks he even hears Ser Jaime laughing. Rhaegar straightened himself, and began again.

This time, the lance breaks upon Jaime, but the man too did not fall. He only grimaced, golden hair sweeping into his eyes, before readying himself again. Thus, they continued, again and again until Rhaegar’s shoulder began to throb beneath his armor. He spies Cersei in the stands, golden hair curled to perfection, green eyes wide with anticipation. Who did she cheer for, he wondered? Rhaegar pulled himself up in his saddle, lowered his lance, and charged again.

This time, the impact reverberated throughout his body, every muscle screaming with the shock of it. His lance had broken squarely upon Jaime’s chest, the force of it knocking the knight off his horse, and the recoil burned down Rhaegar’s arm.

The crowd erupted into cheers. Rhaegar sighed with relief before he pulled off his helmet, shaking out his hair. The people were all upon their feet, stomping in the stands and waving their arms. He looks down to Jaime who was rising slowly from the dirt; he appeared livid, the smart smile from before knocked off his face. When his squire rushed to extend a hand, he brushed him off, rising by himself-- but not without winces. It was a good lesson in humility. The boy needed one.

A new, unbroken lance was put into Rhaegar’s hand. At the end of the wooden pole was a crown of pink and red roses. He urged his horse into a trot, bringing him once around the stadium as the crowd continued to roar. Women looked to him hungrily, but he paid no mind, his eyes already fixed on another.

He stops before her, gently lowering the crown into her lap. She gasps in delight, clapping her little hands over her mouth. “Papa!” Rhaenys exclaimed giddily, gently cradling the crown in her hands. “I’m the Queen of Love and Beauty?”

“You are, little one,” he replied. His daughter fitted the dethorned roses upon her head, grinning widely as she did. The ladies that surrounded her cooed over her. Rhaegar took his horse once more around the stadium, the cheers finally beginning to taper off. 

_Do you forgive me, Elia?_ He thinks to himself as he watches his daughter preening. _I do not know if I have made up for all those years ago, but I am trying. I am._


	11. Lyanna VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna meets Cersei Lannister, and the princess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I have to admit, a large part of the reason that I'm struggling with writing is because lately I've seen some significant parts of some of my fics floating around in others' fics. It's hard to write when you know that it can be stolen!
> 
> I'm doing better now, so I hope this is up to par :)

There wasn’t a proper word for what Lyanna felt since the tourney ended. It was a queasy mixture of shame, anger, surprise, satisfaction that left her feeling dizzy when she thought too much on it. It had been foolish to expect herself to be crowned, as well as foolish to be surprised when she was not. Little Rhaenys was surely the worthiest girl in the stands that day; the worthiest, and the safest. Yet even when it came to a little girl, it left every woman jealous and gushing.

So much so, that Cersei Lannister took it upon herself to throw a celebratory breakfast for the princess the next day, inviting all of the women present at court to attend it. A clever move on the lioness’ part: what better way to meet your competitors as well as assert yourself as the forerunner for future queen? Surely, Rhaegar himself had to approve such a function seeing as it involved his only daughter.

 _Is she truly so close with them?_ Lyanna found herself thinking when she first learned of the breakfast, and again when she arrived in the gardens to find Cersei at the head of the table with the little princess at her side.

Cersei was a striking woman. Having only seen her from afar till now, Lyanna could certainly understand why even Ned’s eye had lingered on yesterday in the stands. Her beauty was unmatched: her skin was clear, her eyes were bright, her hair fell in golden tendrils, and her figure was immensely enviable. Lyanna could not help but look down at her own trim frame and wonder how was it that Cersei had such wonderful breasts and Lyanna had next to none.

“Lady Lyanna!” She hears her name called in a honeyed voice. Lyanna looks up to see Cersei rising. “I am ever so glad you could make it. Here, I’ve a seat for you next to our fair princess.”

Lyanna lingered in her place for a moment before managing a small smile for the rest of the ladies present and walking to her seat. Something about Cersei’s tone reminded her of the serving women that Robert would take to bed and who would grow bold tongues the next day. Accompanying such a tone was an unpleasant feeling of being mocked and underestimated. It made Lyanna bristle.

“I am sorry for your loss, my lady,” Cersei said in what should have been a whisper. “To lose one’s husband in such a fashion… Oh, and he was so young.”

If sympathy was in her voice, it did not reach Lyanna’s ears. “Yes, he was,” she responded as politely as she could manage. _And I am young too,_ Lyanna wished to add. A widow she may be, but she was still a full year younger than the Lannister woman. Instead she pressed her lips together and let Cersei Lannister underestimate her.

“I’m sure you must lament that he had no children for you to remember him by,” Cersei added, in a voice hardly lower than before. “Well, no _trueborn_ children.”

A few giggles sprouted from around the table as a flush began to creep up Lyanna’s neck. Cersei was doing more than underestimating her; she was trying to humiliate her. Lyanna ought to have remained silent and let it roll off her, but that was not her way.

“You are right, my lady. Though I must admit, it is rather difficult to give your husband a child when he is about giving other women children,” Lyanna said, surprised at her own calm and the steady smile she wore. “You will understand my meaning should you ever get married.”

Cersei’s eyes darkened, but a smirk reach her petal pink lips. “I fear I never will. I think I shall do well enough to keep my husband to one bed, don’t you?”

“Oh, _of course_ , Lady Cersei,” Lyanna returned with a too-broad smile. “I wish you the best for your marriage, whenever that may be, and to whoever he may be.” She hoped her words sounded as if they were dripping with the same insincerity the lioness was showing her. 

Cersei threw her one last dark look before turning back to the ladies at the table who watched with piqued interests. “Now, where were we?” She asked them with a dazzling smile, behaving as if nothing had happened at all.

Lyanna allowed herself to be brushed off, favoring watching this woman navigate the intricacies of courtly behavior. Cersei certainly had the social prowess to carry herself through such a situation. Being the center of attention appeared to come easy to her. A fortunate quality for a queen, and one Lyanna did not share. Yet Cersei seemed to have forgotten the reason they gathered.

On Lyanna’s right sat Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, a lovely little girl with bronzed skin and dark eyes. Atop her head of black curls sat the crown her father bestowed upon her, a lovely circlet of pink roses and yellow peonies whose petals had yet to wither. Along with this, the princess also sported crossed arms and a withering glare that burned holes in the back of Cersei’s head.

Lyanna smiled at her show of emotion, and leaned back to whisper, “That’s a lovely crown, princess.”

The girl snaps her head toward her, rage dissipating for a moment as she noticed her. She offers a small, practiced smile, but her eyes still burned. “Thank you, Lady Lyanna,” she returned in perfect courtesy.

“Did you know that I had received one myself, years ago?”

Rhaenys nods stiffly. “Papa gave it to you. He chose you over my mother.”

Lyanna blushed, not expecting her to know the full tale. The princess did not look to her with scorn, however, but with passive interest. ‘What did my father see in _her_ ,’ she seemed to ask.

“That’s true,” Lyanna said, gathering her wits about her. “Though I did not want it then.”

The girl eyed her with furrowed brows for a little longer before offering a sigh much too big for a girl her age. Her dark eyes flitted to the ladies about the table, all of whom seemed to have forgotten her, before they wandered to a spot past the end of the table. Lyanna followed her gaze to a group of gathered children linking hands as they played come-into-my-castle. Their shouts and giggles echoed throughout the gardens. Among them were none other than the little prince that had roamed through the gardens alone the other night. Only this time, Ser Oswell stood by with sharp eyes trained on the boy.

Lyanna looks back to the princess to see a glimmer of longing wash over her face.

“Do you wish to join them?” She asks the princess, whose attention snaps back to her. The longing disappeared in its place was an attempt at composure.

“They’re children. I’m not a child.” She lifted her chin as if trying to make herself seem bigger. Lyanna smiled at her attempt.

“You are a child, princess,” Lyanna returned. “You should go play with them if that is what you want.”

“But I have to be here. With _her_ ,” Rhaenys retorts in half a growl, glowering at the back of Cersei Lannister’s head. “She thinks she’s my mama.” The princess seemed none too pleased at this notion.

“Yet she is not your mother, or even your father’s wife. She cannot forbid you to play.” Lyanna faintly realized her own wickedness in goading this child into abandoning the woman who so keenly starved for a place of power over her. Yet it was within her own nature to rebel, and by extension, to inspire rebellion. “Did your father forbid you to play?”

Rhaenys considers this for a moment. “No,” she admits, lips curling into a half smile.

“What keeps you then, princess?”

The girl looks around at the table again, drinking in the sight of every woman too engrossed in their own conversations to pay attention to the child at their table. Their arrival at this breakfast was only a show, after all: a way to get the king’s attention. Perhaps Rhaenys realized this, or perhaps her mind was as childish as her body, and yearned to be with other children who would provide much greater entertainment.

“You will have the rest of your life to break your fast with ladies,” Lyanna adds, grinning. “Go, now.”

Rhaenys flashes her a dazzling, wicked grin before hopping off her seat and bouncing to the other children at play. Lyanna releases the chuckle she had been holding back as she straightened in her seat and looked about the table.

_How long will it take them to notice, I wonder?_

The answer came in a few minutes’ time, when Cersei put her hand to the back of Rhaenys’ seat and found it empty. “The princess was simply-- Where is she?” She rose quickly, nearly knocking her seat back as she did.

 _What, Lady Cersei? Did you lose one of the king’s children again?_ The silent retort made Lyanna laugh, provoking Cersei’s red-hot glare to fall upon her.

“What is so funny?” Cersei snapped, jaw clenched. Even angry, she looked beautiful.

“The princess is off playing with the other children, my lady,” Lyanna informed her calmly. “I was simply amused that you did not notice.”

Instead of turning scarlet, her cheeks offered a lovely rosy tinge. Regardless, the rage in her eyes was as clear as day.

“This breakfast is for the princess. She ought to be here, with us,” Cersei returned, her voice straining with withheld emotion.

“The princess is a child,” Lyanna said. “She ought to do whatever pleases her.”

Cersei did not pursue this further. She glances around the table to look upon the observing ladies before looking back to her with a tight smile. “I shall seek his grace’s opinion on her behavior. Child or no, she is a princess.” She sat down looking pleased with herself, having rather blatantly revealed that she had the king’s ear. The women around the table seemed to simultaneously deflate.

It struck concern even in Lyanna’s heart, though she could not say why. She had no interest in being Rhaegar’s wife, or the mother of his children of either her womb or another’s. Didn’t she?

 _The children: I am worried for the children._ In the little time she spent with them, she resolved that they were splendid children indeed, and such children deserved a good mother. It was only that Lyanna was unsure if Cersei Lannister was the mother they required.

 _It is not my business,_ Lyanna continued to remind herself throughout the rest of the morning, even saying it out loud before the looking glass in her chamber. _Who Rhaegar marries is no concern of mine. The children are not mine to worry over._

The motherly part of her mind left her, but the political part of her mind returned. A Stark queen would only mean good tidings for the north; allies could be wrought by her own hand here at court. The North could be more prosperous than it has ever been. As for the rest of the realm, Lyanna would see to it that she was a good queen. She would make the people love her, walk among smallfolk and give them gifts of coin, see to it that women of every class had someone to hear their pleas and to seek out justice. All the while, Lyanna would sleep in a bed beside a handsome husband, whose touch would surely be as tender as his words…

Lyanna felt herself flush at the thought. How much she had changed! As a girl writing letters to the prince, her mind knew nothing of navigating such political waters, only of fantasy and freedom. Now she was a woman, considering marriage to the king for the burgeoning future it may hold. Was it her marriage that made her grow? Or simply the passage of time?

Yet even with girlish fantasies of swashbuckling independence no longer near at hand, her heart still called out for a shred of it. She was a prisoner first in her father’s home, and then in Robert’s-- she would not allow herself to be chained again.

If she demanded that of Rhaegar, demanded choice and freedom, would he allow it? Or would he want her close, never far from his side, never to see outside of King’s Landing again?

Lyanna felt unsure of the answer. What she did remain sure of was the thoughts from before: if she could not have what she desired from this marriage, then she did not want it at all. No man would be responsible for completing her. Only she could provide the pieces to fit together a life that would leave her fulfilled.

Rhaegar did not require nothing of her, however. He was clear in his intentions in a way he was not before. He had _wanted_ her-- and he wanted her still. Such yearnings would surely lead to a babe in her belly, as such a thing did before...

Lyanna closed a hand over her middle. The memory crashed to the front of her mind from where it was once long hidden. The stirrings of life in her womb, the fear and rage that followed, the coin in a servant’s hand, and the tea that washed it all away in blood.

She was not proud of it, nor was she ashamed. The child was Robert’s and therefore unwanted; he had already lorded over her body and mistreated that, gave her neither respect nor reverence. He did not deserve a child, and she did not deserve the pain it would give her.

No one knew. The woman who secreted her the tea was paid off and sent away. It was done soon enough that the blood that passed was little more than her moon’s blood. Once it passed, Lyanna gave it no thought. It was simply better to forget.

If Rhaegar proved himself cruel or unkind in the later months of their marriage, could she do it again? To kill the king’s seed was treason…

 _Do not think of it,_ she scolds herself. _Such a thought is a world away._

In an instant, the bloody memory burrowed back into a dark corner of her mind. It would do no good to think of it now-- she hadn’t even agreed to marry him, after all. Not yet.

Despite all these stormy thoughts, a single bright pillar stood out in her mind. Should all this fail-- Should she walk away from King’s Landing with nothing, she would still have a home and a family to return to.

In the end, that was what truly mattered.


	12. Rhaegar VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So they meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I foresee this as being the second to last chapter, with a sequel to follow it up. Enjoy :)

Tonight was the last night.

Tonight would mark the end of the tourney, the gala, the festivities, all of it. It was to close with a grand feast, music, a mummer’s show, an acrobatic troupe, and everything else that the generous budget had allowed. Rhaegar could not regret this; King’s Landing had been revitalized through these events, it’s streets bustling and alive as they once were. It city was glad for the new faces and a fresh flow of coin. He could not say it has been for naught.

Yet no word came from the woman he had hoped to hear from. He had thought for certain that she would see him soon after he had won the tourney-- and why not? He had followed through by giving the crown to another, though in truth Rhaenys had always been his intention. It had been amusing to see her bluster and blush over it, that was all. The she-wolf had teeth that were a thrill to see.

The preparations for the final events were already in place by morning; Rhaegar took this small respite to see to Rhaenys and Aegon. The two seemed delighted to accompany him around the castle grounds. Rhaenys had smiled her brilliant smile when he saw her in her chambers and threw her arms around his neck.

“Papa, I missed you,” she said in a giggle, pulling back to look at him. “Stop being busy.”

“I’m stopping, just for you,” he said in return, stroking her glossy curls. “You and your brother. The three of us will see what I have been missing.”

She had given him a wet peck on the cheek, then ran off to fetch her brother. When she returned, she was wearing the crown of flowers he had given her, and held her bouncing brother’s hand.

 _I will always have them,_ Rhaegar thought, his heart warming at the sight of them. _If nothing else, I will always have them._

Perhaps that was enough.

The three spent the greater part of two hours around the castle grounds, eating sweets bought from vendors, seeing mummer’s shows in the gardens, and even taking a trip to the stables so Aegon may pet the horses he so loved. As he had expected, crowds gathered around them, with many scrambling to speak to him. He had extended his courtesies as best he could until it grew tiresome, and group ended up on the same horses that Aegon was fawning over to take them to Visenya’s Hill and find some peace in the sept.

The trip served a dual purpose. Jon Connington had been itching to speak to him privately, a luxury that could not be afforded around the Red Keep in its current bustling state. The Great Sept of Baelor, on the other hand, was largely empty, and blessedly large.

Upon arrival, Ser Barristan and Ser Oswell took positions at the entrance while Arthur trailed not far behind Jon and Rhaegar. Those who had been in the sept when they have arrived quietly shuffled out, giving their king the privacy of the sept. A king’s prayers must not be heard anyone’s ears but the gods, after all.

His children appeared to be puzzled by this change of venue, clinging close to his side. “Run along, now,” Rhaegar said, a hand on each of their heads. “Say your prayers.”

“Which prayers?” Rhaenys asked, crossing her arms. “To who?”

“To _whom_ ,” Rhaegar corrected. “Ask the septa to help you light a candle for your mother, then pray.”

Though still puzzled, she took her brother by the hand and walked over to a nearby septa. Rhaegar watched as the wizened women led them to the statue of the Mother and pulled a candle from her sleeve.

Jon, who was practically twitching at his side, could not be silent any longer. “Your grace, this tourney nears its end. Have you chosen a bride?”

Rhaegar pulls his eyes away from his kneeling children and looks to his friend. His eyes were nearly as red as his hair, he noticed. He must have been losing sleep keeping up with the events and preparations. _To irritate him would be most cruel,_ Rhaegar thought. _Yet this is where I stand._

“Lyanna Stark has not returned to me,” he said, thought it was hardly an answer at all.

“The Others take that woman!” Jon hissed, mindful enough to keep his voice low in this place of worship. “For the past ten days, hundreds women and girls have been kissing the ground you walk upon! They would kill one another if it meant they would wed you!”

“Peace, Jon,” he returned, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. He visibly relaxed at the touch. “If she will not have me, then Lady Cersei would do. She is close at hand, and willing.”

Jon rubbed his eyes as if they needed readjusting. “If she is close at hand, then why did we spend all this money and time on this?” He waved his hands about as if he hoped to encapsulate the scale of this event in a few broad strokes. Then he closed his bloodshot eyes shut, and groaned. “It wasn’t all for that blasted Stark girl, wasn’t it? Gods help me, Rhaegar, I could have written her to come alone if you didn’t want to--”

“No,” Rhaegar interrupted sharply. “No, this was not all for her. The kingdom needed this, my children needed this, King’s Landing needed this, and I needed this. To have her would have made all this all the more satisfying, but it was always more. I am not so selfish.”

He looks back to his children who each held a candle in their hand as they whispered fervent prayers to the Mother. Rhaegar was almost certain that Aegon was just babbling beneath his breath, but the furrow in Rhaenys’ brow implied that she was taking this more seriously than he had expected.

“I had thought the world would end by now,” Rhaegar whispered, half to himself and half to Jon. “That the signs that the War of the Dawn was approaching would come sooner, and with urgency. Perhaps it is false-- or perhaps we are all doomed, no matter the prophecy.”

“To save the realm is a noble cause, your grace,” Jon assured him, not quite as irritated as before.

“It was.”

 _There must be one more,_ a voice, his own, whispered in his head. That voice sounded so certain, but the man who spoke it was no longer. _If it were fated, the gods would have seen us through._

Rhaenys and Aegon finished their prayers and wandered back to their father. Aegon pulled at his pant leg, pouting up at him. “Tired,” he said sleepily. Rhaegar picked him up and kissed his head.

“I know,” he replied, letting his son rest his silver head upon his shoulder. “Let’s go back.”

“Papa?” Rhaenys called. He look at her to find her brown eyes swimming with tears. “Papa, who will be your bride?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” he told her, giving her a gentler answer than the one he gave Jon.

She sniffled woefully. “I prayed for another mama today,” she said. “I prayed for one that was nice.”

A sharp pain hits his chest, but he says nothing. To see her so tearful over this nearly breaks his heart. He hands off Aegon to Jon, who clumsily readjusts him onto his chest. Rhaegar kneeled, and placed his hands on Rhaenys’ shoulders.

“She doesn’t have to be beautiful, papa,” she added.

“Alright, sweetling,” Rhaegar murmured, drawing her in for an embrace. She sobbed for a little longer into his shoulder before sniffling those tears away. He held her hand as they walked outside of the sept, and sat her in the front of the saddle atop his horse. She liked to grip the reins with him when they rode, and he allowed her that.

When they returned to the Red Keep, he saw both his children off to the nursery and into the hands of their septas. He had to dress and prepare for the feast tonight, but Rhaegar stopped by his solar to gather some papers. A messenger stood outside the door, leaning against the wall as he appeared to wait on something. The boy did nothing for a while, simply standing there with eyes half shut.

“State your business, boy,” Arthur demanded from behind him.

The lad quickly jumped into action. “My apologies, your grace,” he blurted, falling into a low bow. “This there is for you.” He pulled out a slip of paper from his sleeve, and handed it to Arthur’s outstretched hand, who delivered it to Rhaegar.

It was a note torn off from the corner of a piece of parchment. In a sprawling scrawl was written four words, and a letter:

 _Dance with me tonight.  
-L_  
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She was impossible to ignore tonight. Her long hair had been braided down her back in a thick plait that reached her hips. A dress of grey-blue gripped her slender waist, then swept straight down the rest of her. When she turned to smile at her brothers, her freckled nose would crinkle and her eyes would brighten. These were the things he would write poems about to her, back when she was almost his. Tonight she was the embodiment of every word.

_Cersei Lannister may be beautiful, but she is more. I want her, I do._

He was not a man accustomed to common lusts, and less so to love. When he looked at her, he saw nothing of the girl he had hoped to spirit away and fulfill a prophecy with. His intentions with that girl had been cruel and base; there was no hope of wedding her, nor was there any desire to. A child was all he wanted, and nothing more. Now that same girl was a woman now, a learned and widowed woman no less. If she was to be his she would stand as his wife, as his equal, and nothing less.

A tug came at his sleeve. He turned to Viserys, who had suspended his sulking enough to come for tonight’s feast. “Rhaenys said you were going to marry someone again,” he spoke, his stoic look making him look older than his ten years. “Who?”

“You’ll see,” Rhaegar told his brother, who huffed at the response.

The music struck up not soon after, a jaunty tune meant to rile the crowd into shaking off their food-induced laziness and bring them onto the floor. It succeeded, bringing more than one to dance in the middle. Rhaegar caught Lyanna look at him from the corner of her eye-- just briefly, but long enough for him to notice.

 _You have chosen to dance, but I shall choose the song,_ he thought to himself, satisfied at this little bit of mischief.

Two more songs passed, each one as jolly as the one before. It was enough to bring Ser Arthur and Rhaenys for a dance together, the little girl giggling with joy as this much larger man bent to hold hands with her. Another song passed; this one a little slower, but much raunchier. At the one after it, however, Rhaegar stood.

Half of those in the hall came to a hush. When he walked out behind his table, the rest of the hall quieted, and all that was left was the soft, slow rush of music.

Lyanna sat up straight in her seat, eyeing him with interest, and as he neared, he saw the color on her cheeks. He extended a hand to her, smiling as he did. “My lady, would you join me for a dance?”

“I would be most pleased, your grace,” she replied with full courtesy, most likely for the sake of those around her. She slipped her slim hand into his, allowing herself to be led out to the middle of the floor. Their clasped hands settled at a place in the air between his shoulder and her’s as her other hand gingerly touched his elbow. In turn, Rhaegar pressed his hand to the middle of her back, smiling again as her cheeks burned brighter. Then, the pair danced.

“I cannot believe you,” she murmured beneath her breath, raising her bright eyes to his. There was a delightful hint of annoyance in her grey eyes that clearly indicated her displeasure at something.

“What is it, my lady?” He asked innocently.

“This song,” she returned in a quiet hiss. She glanced about the room as they spun, noting the others’ reactions. When she looked back to him, that little glint of chagrin grew.

“What of it?”

“Damn you,” she quipped, blushing anew. “ _My Lady Wife_? Do you realize what everyone is thinking right now?”

Rhaegar did not hide his satisfaction. He had waited for this very song tonight, and seized his chance with it. He knew very well what everyone was thinking.

“I want them to think it,” he replied. “I would have you, Lady Lyanna, as my wife. I would do it at any cost.”

“I’m expensive,” she said with some cheek, a bit of her blush fading. “I come with terms.”

Rhaegar could not pretend that he was surprised. He had expected as much, from a woman entering her second marriage. “I would hear those terms, my lady.”

“Not now, you won’t,” she said, offering a small, mischievous smile. “I think I’ve revealed enough of myself to you today.” She allowed herself to be spun before stepping back into his arms. She was a good dancer, Rhaegar noticed, moving with the grace and ease of someone used to being quick on their feet.

“You could always reveal more,” he said. “I would not begrudge you that.”

“Tomorrow,” she insisted. “I shall be in the godswood to pray.”

“I will join you, then.”

They performed the rest of the dance in silence, the pair giving their sharp-eyed audience more than enough to speculate about. He could feel their eyes on them as they moved, but if Lyanna still felt the same, she did not show it. She only smiled her small, wolfish smile, enjoying the dance instead of appearing pestered by it. As the song came to a close, the two moved apart. Rhaegar bowed as she curtsied; when they looked back up, their eyes met for the final time that night. 

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

“Tomorrow.”


	13. Lyanna VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna seals the deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Uni has me all sorts of busy.

_An oak tree?_

Lyanna wrinkled her nose at the large oak before her, wondering if it was some clever jape that someone carved a face on an oak tree and called it a heart tree. She supposed she was expecting too much out of an Andal-conquered south to see a weirwood in the godswood, but she could not help but be disappointed. 

Yet she knelt all the same and bowed her head as she said her prayers. They were not special by any means; only rudimentary childhood wishes of protection and a kind hand of judgement from the gods. It was not the praying itself that Lyanna cherished, but rather the feel of grass beneath her knees, the coarseness of the stone altar digging into her elbows, and the omnipresent spirit of the old gods swirling around her. Lyanna felt safe when she prayed; she felt at home, and she felt connected to her family in so strong a way that it often felt like she could open her eyes and find one of her brothers beside her.

Even here, at the foot of this pretender of a heart tree, Lyanna felt it all. All that was missing were the walls of Winterfell around it. That was one thing, Lyanna knew, would not make its way to King’s Landing.

She opened her eyes at the end of her prayers, and stared up at the face carved into the brown trunk. She would get used to it, in time, but she could not be expected to love it. _But then, shall I ever love anything as much as I love home?_

She rose from her kneel and looked over her shoulder. She did not gasp when she saw Rhaegar there, as still and quiet as a statue a small distance behind her. She had invited him here, after all, though she did not expect him to be so silent.

“Did I interrupt your prayers?” Rhaegar asked. His long silver hair had been tied back with a piece of red leather, making his dark purple eyes seem all the more brilliant in his finely chiseled face.

“I had just finished,” Lyanna replied, folding her hands over the front of her gown. A brief silence falls between the pair, one that was likely the result of the two of them examining each other in the lovely morning light. Lyanna was respectful in looking him over, perhaps even bordering on shy. Even with a year of marriage and a year of widowhood, she had never found herself entirely comfortable with eyeing men, and certainly not when they were eyeing her. Rhaegar did not make her uneasy, however. He too was respectful, keeping his gaze on her face longer than on any other part of her.

“I’ve come to hear your terms,” Rhaegar announced, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I’ve also come to ask you to be my wife.”

“One at a time,” Lyanna chided, smiling despite herself. His gaze had grown unusually intense, giving her the impression that he very much wanted to hear what she had to say, and very much wanted to go through with what he wished to do. She found no sense in wasting any more time, and jumped right in. “This is not the first time either of us have been wed. I ask for tradition to be abandoned on more than one front. Will you allow it?”

He paused as if considering her words, then nodded. “Will you elaborate?”

“I will.” She took a silent breath, and braced herself. “I do not require a courtship. You need not spend your coin on me buying me things I do not want. I do not need to read any more poems by you, or hear any more songs. I want to know the contents of your mind. The honest contents.” She paused, waiting to hear a protest. He offered none. “I shall not marry you today, nor tomorrow, nor in a moon’s turn. I aim to begin my return to Winterfell today. In half a year, I should like to see you there. We’ll have a sept built by then.”

At this, he found reason to furrow his brows. “A royal wedding, my lady, ought to be held in the capital. For the sake of ease of travel for our guests.”

Lyanna nearly rolled her eyes. “Did I not ask you to abandon tradition at the start?” She asked. “You already had a royal wedding, your grace. What use have you for another one? Why should I once again travel so long a distance simply to wed a man? And what will many guests do for us, but offer another headache?”

He fell silent again as he mulled over her words. It no doubt remained to sit ill with him; for all his youth, he was a man who had fallen into the practiced ebb and flow of courtesy and propriety of a man twice his age. If he wished to be stubborn, that was his decision. Lyanna would simply have to do without him.

“Very well,” he finally relented, nodding slightly. “A wedding in the North it is, then.”

Lyanna nods, glad to hear his approval. “I should like to see your children at our wedding. A trip north will broaden their minds, and they should be a part of the festivities. They ought to see us married, too. I do not want to return to King’s Landing as an unpleasant surprise.”

To her surprise, he offered a small smile. “I very much agree, my lady. Aegon has already taken a shine to you; I’m certain Rhaenys shall not be far behind.”

The memory of the precocious princess tickles her. The little one was a firebrand in courtier’s clothing; she would make her work for her respect, no doubt, but Lyanna was not so naive as to believe otherwise. One could not force a child to love them, after all; such a thing was entirely up to children.

“We are in agreement, then?” Rhaegar asked, taking a step forward perhaps to seal the deal in his own way. A kiss, perhaps, or something more chaste. But Lyanna was not prepared to close yet.

“One more thing,” Lyanna added, looking up at him. “I ask that I be given permission to leave whenever I desire.”

This point was the most important, but also the heaviest to swallow. He blinks, visibly puzzled by her meaning. Lyanna held her breath in anticipation of his response, which was slow to come.

“Leave?” He asked. “Leave me?” The melancholy that passed into his eyes then was dangerously familiar. 

“Yes, Rhaegar,” she replied breathlessly. “Should a day come that I cannot bear to be at your side anymore, I want your word that you will let me go.”

He looked at her silently, clearly unsure of what to think. This pause alone reminded her that he was a man with a man’s pride, no matter how sweet his words and soft his demeanor. Perhaps he had hoped to own her, body and soul-- and perhaps he still did, and would retract his desires to have her.

He could just as easily lie and tell her what she wished to hear-- Lyanna was aware of that. In all things, there was always a measure of faith involved. This matter was no different.

“I’m not a child,” Lyanna reminded him with a raise of her brows. “I am not driven by impulse and rage anymore. I would not leave you over a small infraction, but there are some things I cannot accept, and over time you will learn what they are.” She boldly reached for his hand then, taking his long fingers between her palm and thumb. “You will promise me a marriage of equals, or you shall have nothing at all.”

Her heartbeat picked up speed, though for what reason, she was not entirely sure. Perhaps she desperately wished to hear his agreement and with it the reassurance that he was a good man at heart. Or perhaps it was because he had lifted her hand and pressed the merest of kisses upon her knuckles. 

“Your terms are fair, my lady,” he said as he returned her hand to her side. “I accept.”

“I knew you would see it my way,” Lyanna teased with grin. The way he looked at her now warmed her skin in a fashion that she had not experienced for a long, long time. It was not a hungry stare, or a harsh one, but it was kind and gentle and full of promise. She was a woman who had her fill of brash, brutish men and this was a lovely change indeed.

“That leaves me with one question, then,” he said, gently taking her chin in his hand. “Will you be my wife, Lady Lyanna?”

Lyanna sucked in a breath before answering. “I will.”

_With these words, I’ve sealed my fate._

The kiss he pressed to her lips was brief and made all the more sweeter by their surroundings. She felt it now, the ebb and flow of the spirit of the godswood, marking this moment as a turning point in her life. She was committing herself to a man again, only this time it was of her own choosing, and the gods had always praised boldness.

His calloused fingertips lingered on the side of her face when they broke apart. Lyanna caught gentle hold of his wrist for the sake of sharing a touch. “There is one more thing you must do, however,” Lyanna said coyly. Rhaegar only looked at her expectantly. “While I was given leave to give my own hand away, you still must ask my brother.”

Rhaegar raised his brows in amusement. “I thought we were abandoning tradition?”

“This, unfortunately, must stay,” Lyanna returned with a chuckle.

“I shall meet with him, then,” he promised. A brief silence passed between them as the two took the last moments of this scene in stride. It was Rhaegar who broke this silence with a question. “Will I be bidding you farewell later today, or shall this be the last I see you before half a year?”

“Perhaps you may catch me at the postern gate before I leave, or perhaps I shall be gone before you know it,” she quipped. “Fate is a fickle creature.”

“Am I wedding myself to fate or a woman?” He teased in return.

“Fate _is_ a woman. Haven’t you learned by now?”

“Perhaps you should teach me.”

It is she who leaves first, passing by Ser Arthur Dayne as she does, standing guard as knights of the Kingsguard are sworn to do. He gave her a solemn nod and wished her a safe journey home.

She catches up with Benjen still in his room, sulking as he stowed away his tourney armor and sword. She reached over and pinched his side; he frowned deeper at the interrupted and rubbed his half-crescent wound.

“Don’t pout,” she scolded, making to pinch him again; he slapped her hand away. “Wait a little longer on taking your vows and you will have plenty more tourneys to compete in.”

He sighed forlornly. “Well, it wasn’t a fair competition. They were all years older than me.” He shrugged, then looked to her with narrowed eyes. “What has you so chipper anyways?”

“I’m glad to be coming home, is all. I’ve missed Catelyn and father.”

“Not Brandon?”

“Never Brandon.”

That got a chuckle out of him at least. The mirth passed quickly however, and he returned to looking at her in all seriousness. “I take it you’ve accepted the king’s offer.”

Lyanna blinks, taken aback by his intuition. Could Ned have met with Rhaegar so quickly? Was everyone talking about it already? “How did you know?” She asked.

“I can tell,” he returned. “We’ve been through this before, you know. Only this time…” He fell silent for a moment. “I’m glad you didn’t go with him the first time.”

The first time: only three years ago, yet it hung over him like a cloud. The first time would have been a mistake; Lyanna saw that now. She had been young and foolish and with a head full of dreams. She reached out and squeezed Benjen’s arm.

“I’m glad too, little brother,” she said quietly. “I think we are all glad for it.”  
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She leaves Benjen to gather up the last of his belongings, and avoids Ned’s bedchamber, sensing that he wasn’t in there to begin with. In any case, she still had plenty of time left to spend with her family, and only a little more time in King’s Landing.

Thus, she sought out the royal children, hoping to say goodbye. The last thing she wanted was to be absent from the start; she would see them, tell them her name, and promise to one day see them again.

At the entrance to Maegor’s Holdfast, was Ser Oswell Whent who stood guard. He escorted her through the castle-within-the-castle, leading her to the hall where the nursery and bedchambers of the royal family. _This will all soon be mine_ , Lyanna realized. _All these halls, these rooms…_

Stationed in front of one of the doors was Ser Jaime. Upon seeing the pair, he offered a little smirk. “Good morning, my lady,” the young knight greeted her. “You’re here to see the children?”

Lyanna nodded. “Yes, I am.” Something about his smirk was off-putting, though Lyanna could not place exactly what it was that made her feel that way. There was an arrogance to him, certainly, but that smile was more than just a manifestation of that. Her father’s voice surfaces in her head mumbling about Lannister pride in some fashion or another-- yet they were lions, and she was a wolf, and they had nothing to do with the other.

Ser Jaime nodded his head toward the door, giving her permission she didn’t truly need. Lyanna parted from Ser Oswell’s side to walk to the door. She was strangely anxious in doing so, her heart pounding in her chest. She was good with children, of course, but they were never her children and certainly not her _step_ -children.

Sucking in a breath, she turned the knob of the door and entered the room. Immediately on entering, a small body crashes against her legs and clings to her skirts. Lyanna smiles, and kneels to greet him.

“Hello, Prince Aegon,” she said, gently gripping the excitable boy by the shoulders. “I’ve come to say goodbye, for now.”

“Bye!” He exclaims, waving as he bounced. “Bye bye!”

Rhaenys stands a ways away, closer to the skirts of her septa than to Lyanna. She was wary-- and perhaps had every right to be. “Good bye, princess,” she said, opening an arm to beckon her forward, though the girl does not move. “We’ll be seeing more of each other on my return, won’t we?”

She does not speak, or even nod, and Lyanna does not blame her. She had always expected that the most difficult part of this was not to have a man agree to marriage, but rather have his children agree to her.

_Then I have met with my first challenge as queen._

Aegon is younger and more childish, and he does not mind giving her a kiss and an embrace before seeing her off. With Rhaenys, Lyanna settles with giving her a curtsey. When they meet again, things will be better, Lyanna tells herself.

After all, she was coming to learn that most things are better the second time around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep an eye out for the sequel! ;)


	14. The sequel is up!

I know some of you requested this, so here it is, a link to the sequel along with a description:

 

_**[We Start Anew](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6681331/chapters/15279979) ** _

After meeting somewhere in between, the pair of widows decide on an advantageous marriage of equals. With weddings comes great drama-- this time in the form of resistant children, a jealous competitor, and memories thought to be buried deep.

Yet the tribulations of a wedding may pale in comparison to that of marriage itself. Lyanna had gained Rhaegar's word that she may leave whenever she desired; becoming queen, mother, and wife all at once may prove to be too difficult a challenge for a woman whose desires had never been stationary. While Lyanna has plenty to lose, Rhaegar has much to gain-- and a prophecy's fulfillment is the greatest gain of all.

Or: Lyanna and Rhaegar give each other second chances, and it much easier said than done.


End file.
